


A Twist of Fate

by lindsaydrumm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: A slight divergence from canon, Aftermath of Torture, Because that's definitely where this is headed, Big on HEA, Did I already say HEA?, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Flashbacks of torture, Frequent visitors because I like their comraderie, Healing, Mind the Tags, Not a Story For Children, Past Abuse, Past relationship(ish) Theon/Sansa, Post Season 8, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sansa's a bit of a mess, Sansa's got a new sworn shield with a needle, Sansa's not such a cold hearted Queen, Sisterly devotion, Thanks to some healing hands, There will be lemons, There will be violence, This is a plot bunny I couldn't let go of, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trauma, What if Sandor didn't die?, Why did everyone leave Sansa?, but not too much, but she'll get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsaydrumm/pseuds/lindsaydrumm
Summary: Winter has come. The battles have passed. The Dragon Queen is dead. Bran the Broken rules over Westeros and the six kingdoms. Jon is back at the wall. Arya sails the edges of the world. And Sansa has been named Queen of the North.It is everything she ever wanted. To be home. To be Queen. But she didn't think she'd feel so alone. With her family scattered and the limited people she'd trusted advising Bran, who does she turn to when winds of winter blow the hardest and threaten to take everything she's ever wanted? Everything she's worked so hard for.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 215
Kudos: 272





	1. Prologue

Prologue

SANDOR

He didn’t know what made him do it; reach his hand out as he and his monstrous brother fell through the crumbling ruins of the Red Keep. Maybe it had been what was left of his own sense of self-preservation. Maybe something else entirely. Something he’d never dared to put words to except in the darkest of rooms, on the darkest of nights. Only then had he let himself admit that maybe the reason he kept surviving when he should not have, wasn’t to kill Gregor. It wasn’t hate that kept him going anymore. Not hate. But another word, a more powerful word that he’d never dared to utter, even to himself.

So, when the giant, battered, dying brothers had plunged through the stone walls towards dragon fire lit streets below, a different red flashed behind his eyes. Long tresses. Sharp blue eyes. And his heart had stuttered painfully. He wasn’t done yet. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t hate that drove him anymore. Not hate.

His fingered scraped rough stone before they caught one. Steel grip halted him mid-air as he watched through bloodied eyes will Gregor tumbled farther and farther out of sight. He dangled there for some time, muscles screaming in protest. The time was indeterminable. It could have been mere moments, hours, days. He didn’t call out. He barely breathed for fear his fingers would twitch and that would be the end of him. Of his house, damaged as it was. Of his chances to have something more. To be something more.

He couldn’t say what had indicated his peril to the man who passed by him. What that soldier was doing in the Keep wasn’t his problem or his concern. But, if he ever found him again, he might just have to thank him. For pulling him up. For dragging his mangled body painfully down the stairs and out of the crumbling tower. If he hadn’t been propped up against the walls, the men from the North under the Bastard King’s rule might not have seen him, half-dead as he was. Might not have carried him to the maesters tent – however many men that took. He’d blacked out from the pain at that stage. He had no idea how long he’d slept. It must have been days, weeks even.

When he awoke to a septa tending his wounds and speaking softly, he’d only caught fragments, but it was enough. He might never believe in the Gods, old or new, but he’d started to believe in something. The King of the North had killed the Dragon Queen. Bran the Broken now ruled over the six kingdoms. And the little bird had finally gotten her crown. It occurred to him then that Stark words had always been true. Winter had come. The lone wolf dies while the pack survives. That’s what the wolf bitch had said, right? It seemed that chopping off Ned Stark’s head hadn’t killed off his pups like the Lannister bitch had intended. Her children laid dead, while a Stark ruled over Westeros – one her incestuous brother had tried to kill, if the rumours were to be believed – while another ruled a free North. Even his bastard had been king at one stage.

It had all fallen into place. No matter the obstacles. No matter who tried to rip out the Starks root and stem, they’d prevailed. And now, by some strange twist of fate he’d remained as well. A scarred beast of a man, surely crippled from Gregor’s final attempt to murder him, but he still lived. No, Sandor didn’t believe in the bloody gods, but he’d learned to believe in something better. Which was why his path suddenly laid out before him. He would heal as best he could. He would make his way North. And he would pledge himself to the little bird in whatever service she saw fit to place him in.

Milk of the poppy slipped through his cracked lips and pulled him back into darkness. But he wasn’t alone there long. Red tresses and sharp blue eyes awaited him with a soft smile.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little into Sansa's thoughts a year after being crowned Queen. Oh, and of course, there are issues in the North ;-)

Chapter 1

SANSA

She had lost too much. For all the joy she had found with the tattered remains of her family back under the roof of Winterfell, she was once again the last Stark that remained in its heated stone walls. Arya sailed to the edges of the world in search of new adventures. Jon roamed north of the wall with his merry band of wildlings and what remained of the decimated Night’s Watch. Bran – sorry, King Bran – ruled over the six kingdoms in a city she loathed to ever set foot in again, even for her only surviving brother. And what was worse was all the rest had remained with him. Brienne. Tyrion. Davos – though she had known him little, she noticed the lack of his presence. Samwell Tarly, with his wildling bride and beautiful babes. Sandor. He was much changed from the man she had known in King’s Landing. She missed the opportunity to get to know him as the man he’d become. And then there were those she had lost forever. The too young Lady Mormont. Theon.

The last name that floated through her mind brought a striking pain to her heart and made her breath catch. Memories flooded her from childhood. Laughter, dancing, feasts, fights. And later . . . much later under the sadistic hands of her late husband. A scarred and terrorized boy looking out at her through the hollow eyes of man who had all but been destroyed by the Bastard’s cruelty. And yet, the fraction of him that had remained had been enough to secure their freedom and their lives. She owed so much to Theon. A debt that could never be repaid. One she had thought to repay, in kind, before the Night King had wiped out that dream with a single stroke nearly a year ago.

She thought again of the Hound – though he had stopped being that long before she had set eyes upon him again. The man who’d graced the walls of Winterfell those few precious weeks had been changed from the gruff, brutish, foul-tempered drunkard she’d remembered in King’s Landing. He hadn’t been all bad, of course. She still had the white cloak he’d used to cover her during one of Joffrey’s more public humiliations. And she still heard the words and felt the bite of the dagger to her throat as wildfire lit the sky green as he demanded a song from her, before the offer to take her away and keep her safe had come. He had been a walking contradiction, Sandor Clegane. The man she’d spent little time with – who’d gone out of his way to keep her only sister alive and safe – had softer glances and less heat in his words that the one she’d come to know before. She found she could think on him with kindness, and perhaps something a little more. But that was also to come to naught. No good would come from lingering feelings for someone when there was no hope for a future. No matter how unjust it was that she was deprived of all who’d ever sworn to protect her.

Sansa walked the battlements alone, her crown secured in her chambers. She felt more than a little silly wearing it while she walked around her home. In the great hall it was different. That was where she did all her politicking – heard from the lords and smallfolk under care. Resolved grievances. Ruled over the North. She often received ravens from the Nights Watch – from Jon – and continued to send men North to help man the wall. She invited him to visit often. He never did.

A cold wind bit at her cheeks and stung her eyes, but she relished how alive it made her feel. She had found herself with everything she’d always wanted as a girl, but nothing she needed now as a woman. She had the respect and love of her people, but didn’t have advisors she could trust wholeheartedly. There was no Arya to help her by lurking in the shadows and threatening to chop off heads when someone stepped out of line. No Bran to give his eerie predictions or recollections. No Jon to even out her moments of temper with wise words and honorable intentions. She didn’t need them to lead, she was perfectly capable of that on her own. But she missed them fiercely, and if anyone had asked her, she would openly admit she had preferred to have them there with her. The castle felt lonely and empty without the rest of the remaining Starks (and one sulky Targaryen) under its roof.

“Your Grace?”

Sansa turned; the title still gave her a little thrill when she heard it. A boy no older than ten approached with a sealed scroll that bore a fist. House Glover. He kneeled before her and held out the parchment. Sansa took it with a small smile and a word of thanks. Usually, scrolls were given directly to Maester Wolkan. There must have been strict instruction that the words were for her eyes only. As the Glovers were still viewed suspiciously following their lack of support during the Long Night, Sansa wasn’t sure what Lord Glover could possibly want to be so secretive about.

_“Your Grace,_

_For centuries, our families have cooperated with one another, and House Glover has served House Stark well and loyally. It is my hope that this close relationship will once again resume. I write to formally request a private audience with you, my Queen, regarding a matter of utmost urgency. I will make my way to Winter Town and send you word when I have arrived._

_You’re Faithful Servant,_

_Lord Robett Glover_

Suspicion prickled at the back of Sansa’s neck as she rolled the parchment up and tucked it into her sleeve. A matter of urgency that he wished none of the other Northern lords to hear? One that required she leave the safety of her walls and meet with him in secret. Sansa misliked the request a great deal. She would not go there without a guard. She would not go there at all. If Lord Glover wanted an audience with her, he would come within her walls and see her. A private audience could be granted in the Great Hall – with guards still present, of course. She was not so foolish to allow someone who had not proven their absolute loyalty in times of dire need to be alone with her, unprotected. That would be utter madness, and she was not mad. Nor was she the stupid little bird she’d once been with a head full of songs and heart full of hope. Two marriages had been all the proof she needed that such childish notions had no place in the world, especially not her world.

She found Maester Wolkan exactly where she’d left him. In the tower pouring over accounts and accumulating a list of needed supplies for their medicinal stores. They’d been massively depleted during the wars and the cupboards were all but bare. Not good for a castle with so many to look after. Maester Tarly had promised the full cooperation of the Citidel in his last missive. The North would be granted whatever supplies they needed from Westeros. In return, the North supplied them with timber and quality smiths to help with their rebuild. It was going to be quite an undertaking, rebuilding King’s Landing.

“Your Grace,” he rose swiftly and bowed his head. She waved him off with a hand. Formalities had their place, but were unnecessary in private.

“I wanted your council on this,” she stated plainly as she handed him the scroll.

“No ravens came today,” he muttered as he looked at the broken seal.

“No, this was given to me directly by a boy in plainclothes,” she informed him and watched with satisfaction when his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He had proven himself over and over to be a steadfast and faithful man. One whom had loathed both Lord Bolton’s and seemed more than a little relieved when Jon had taken back the castle – with her help, of course. He had always been kind to her. More than that, he was always bluntly honest and direct. She respected that and had come to value his opinions, even if she chose a different path than he would have. He still respected her and told her what he thought whenever asked, and never when hadn’t. Few men in her company could make such a boast.

“A private audience?” he snorted in derision and muttered under his breath. “Mighty presumptuous of him, all things considered.”

Sansa bit back a smile. The Maester had made his dislike of Lord Glover well-known when it was just to two of them. Never in front of the other Northern lords. He knew better than to inflame conflicts between the houses. The man was not without intelligence.

“Tell me what you think he’s up to,” she requested as she perched on the edge of a seat by the

fire. Wolkan looked pensive as he glanced down at the letter again. It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts, but when he shared them, Sansa was not disappointed.

“Lord Glover has never been a man to mince words. Even when he was turning down your Grace

and your brother when you sought assistance for the Battle of the Bastards,” he paused and stammered, “meaning no offence to Jon, my Queen.”

Sansa gave a genuine half-smile and waved away his concerns. If it didn’t bother Jon, then it didn’t bother her. And nothing bothered Jon these days, especially what they called a battle that he had come away from victorious. Because of her.

“As I was saying, this seems to be both his style and not,” he looked back down at the scroll with a frown. “He is blunt about the long connection your families have shared, but then secretive about what he wishes to see you about. And is he actually the type of man who would request that his Queen sneak out of her own castle to meet him, unprotected and far enough away from her guards that harm might befall her?”

Sansa paused to give that last part some thought. She had been so consumed with what it was that Lord Glover could possibly want that she hadn’t even stopped to consider that it might not actually be Lord Glover at all. She had to at least entertain that thought that the letter was written by someone else. By someone who knew of Lord Glover, but did not know him well personally.

“No,” she replied, a frown of her own pinching her features. “No, he advised against Jon going to meet the Dragon Queen when she sent for him. I cannot see that same man asking for me to come to Winter Town alone.”

“Of his vassals, are there any that would wish you harm, your Grace?” Wolkan inquired.

“One can never be sure, of course,” Sansa replied. “But non that I have been made aware of. The Glovers always were one of the most loyal houses to my father when I was growing up. It had been that way for generations as far as I was told.”

She paused and gave a humourless smirk. “However, I was just a girl. If there were problems with any of the houses under my father’s protection as Warden of the North, I wouldn’t have known about it. The only one who might have, was Robb. Who might have shared it with Jon, if he had been of a mind to listen.”

“I think you are forgetting one very important person right now, who could be of incredible help to you, your Grace,” Wolkan provided evenly. Sansa immediately knew where his thoughts were going and shook her head.

“No,” she argued firmly. “I will not trouble Bran with this. He has six kingdoms to rule, and I won’t add more to his already full plate.”

On top of that, she did not want to be seen as the ruler who needed a man to help her solve her problems. These were her houses, her people, her kingdom. The North was her responsibility. She didn’t need Brans’ strange magic to help her figure out what to do. She was capable all on her own.

“Begging your pardon, your Grace,” Wolkan said around a small smile, “but I wasn’t going to suggest King Bran, but one of his advisers.”

“Lord Tyrion?” She wasn’t sure she could abide Tyrion back under her roof, no matter how much she genuinely respected – and even liked – him. He liked to take over too much, and she was not about to hand her power over to him, or any man, ever again.

“Actually, I was thinking Ser Davos. He spent time with not one, but two men who were Norther Kings. He might be able to provide some insight that we simply do not have,” Wolkan provided with a tiny shrug of one shoulder.

Sansa paused. He was right, of course. She had not considered him because he never seemed to be overly clever, like Tyrion. But she had heard the man speak, and he had the ability to move those to his cause with great ease and ability. Mayhaps he would be able to help her riddle out any prospective issues with Northern lords he had spent so much time navigating around. Much more time than she had been permitted, as daughter to Warden of the North, or sister to the King in the North.

“A raven will take a while to get there,” she surmised, but had already risen to gather the materials she needed.

“Perhaps an invitation, your Grace?” Wolkan suggested. “Ser Davos was, at the very least, an amiable man. It would not be a challenge to host him here. That is, if your brother would allow his Master of Ships some time away from the capital?”

Before she could answer, a commotion rose up from outside the high windows. Maester Wolkan peered out and down into the courtyard before a wide, albeit nervous, grin spread across his face. When he turned back to her, his darks eyes shone with both uncertainty and excitement.

“It appears there will be no need, your Grace,” he started to say when one of Sansa’s handmaidens blustered into the room.

“Your Grace,” Beccah gasped, out of breath from running up the many steps of the tower. “Riders from King’s Landing have just entered our gates.”

“Thank you, Beccah.” Sansa didn’t miss the way the woman’s eyes shifted uncomfortably, nor the way Wolkan pointedly avoided looking at her. She would have to reason that out later. “Please see that proper accommodations are made for our guest.”

“Guests,” Beccah corrected before hastily tacking on, “my Queen. There are two of them who seem rather important, along with a small regiment of soldiers.”

“How many?” Wolkan inquired.

“I counted ten, Maester, including the important ones.”

“Gods, like we don’t have enough men to feed ourselves,” he grumbled quietly. Sansa shared his concern, though would not say so aloud. It was not Queenly to share her concerns with common folk. The Maester was one thing; her handmaidens were entirely different.

“I am sure we can make due. After all, our glass houses have been restored and growing crops for us for some time,” Sansa tried to placate, when she was interrupted again.

“They’ve brought wagons of provisions with them, your Grace.”

Beccah was a lovely woman and a fine handmaiden, but she sometimes lacked the social graces Sansa found important for someone so close to a Queen. She had been sent by Alyce Karstark, and was previously in the Karstarks’ employ. The younger Lady had wanted to thank Sansa for following Jon’s proclamation that she be allowed to keep her family’s castle and titles, even though she had been the one to suggest their home be given to someone else. None of that mattered anymore. Alys, the last Karstark, had been killed by wights. Her house extinct, the castled had been granted to House Poole. Jeyne had never been located, but her mother and four sisters had remained at their family home after the murder of her father in the capital. It was still Sansa’s hope that her childhood friend be found, but with so much time passed where she would have been safe to make herself known, the less likely it was that she had survived any of the wars. How her mother and sisters had survived was little more than miraculous. So, out of respect for the services House Poole had always provided the Starks, Sansa granted them Karhold and raised their house status.

“At least they had the curtesy to come prepared,” Wolkan said in a decidedly more pleasant tone than before. Sansa smothered a smile behind her hand.

“I shall escort you to the Great Hall, your Grace, so that you can receive our guests properly,” he then offered and moved towards the door. Sansa nodded once and led the way, as was her role. When she took her customized wooden throne (carved into the shape of a mighty weirwood, with red lacquered leaves that rose behind her head and a soft velvet cushion for her to rest upon. As soon as she lowered herself into her seat, her crown was placed atop her head.

“Show our guests in,” she commanded. A royal guard nodded once and opened the doors. Moments later, a cloaked figure strode in with quiet confidence and a warm smile.

“Your Grace,” he greeted jovially as he took a knee. Sansa tried to hide her surprise when he glanced up at her again. She’d never really understood how Bran’s magic worked, but as Ser Davos rose to stand before she couldn’t doubt its existence. How else could one explain how the man she and Wolkan were discussing sending word to only moments ago, stood before them as if he’d been summoned.

“Ser Davos, it’s wonderful to see you again, and looking so well,” Sansa offered genuinely.

“As well as one can look at my age, anyway,” he countered with a grin. “But the complaints of rickety old men are not the concern of Queens.”

“I’d hardly call you rickety,” Sansa argued around a laugh.

“Then you are far kinder than your once-kingly brother,” he shot back, to which Sansa laughed fully. He and Jon had always seemed to have an easy relationship. Though, aside from the Red Woman, Sansa hardly knew of anyone Ser Davos spoke poorly of, or to for that matter.

“You must be half-frozen from your travels,” Sansa stood and gestured towards the door behind her. “Let us move our discussion to my solar, where it is far more comfortable.”

It was curtesy and kindness all while being a clear signal to her men; this was not a foe or person they need to be suspicious of. This was a man who was trusted, even liked, by herself, and respected by Bran. Strange as he may be, the Northerners still loved and respected her brother, if only because he was Ned Stark’s son.

“That sounds wonderful, your Grace,” Davos said, somewhat relieved. “Might I also invite my guest along? I had him wait outside, but King Bran insisted that he accompany me for the trip. Said that while he had no place for him in King’s Landing, that you, and the North, would find him and his skills most useful.”

Intrigued, Sansa nodded as she walked up to take Davos’ proffered arm and allowed him to escort her from the chamber. He stood outside, garbed in a full grey fur cloak, with the hood up against the wind. He stood a little less than her height, but something about his stature and piercing gaze of his blue eyes made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

“Queen Sansa, may I introduce Daemon of Skagos. He came to King’s Landing a fortnight ago, though why you didn’t just come here, being from the North and all, doesn’t make much sense to me. But, he’s a bright lad and quick on his feet.”

The man was rather plain, being neither comely enough to draw the eye or ugly enough to shy away from. He bowed respectfully and his deep voice boomed, “Your Grace.”

Sansa smiled and held his gaze. “Skagos is a long way from King’s Landing, Daemon, and does not hold many houses. Which do you come from?”

He didn’t flinch or falter at all when his lips twisted into a half-smirk. “Not rightly sure, your Grace. I was a bastard, and me mum died in childbed. I was taken in by a serving wench, Lylah, in House Crowl and raised there until I became a man.”

“I see,” Sansa took a few steps towards across the courtyard towards the Great Keep while the men kept pace with her. “So, why leave Skagos and go to King’s Landing?”

“I had no interest in joining the Night’s Watch,” he replied simply with a shrug of his shoulders. “Since bastard’s don’t fair too well among the Skaggs, thought I might try my luck further south.”

Sansa didn’t miss a step, nor did she miss a beat when she heard the error in his words. Instead, she just hummed and smiled and continued to lead them towards her solar. Maester Wolkan instructed a passing chambermaid to bring hot spiced wine and food for their guests, and to set the soldiers up in the barracks with Winterfell’s own men. Once she’d scurried off to do as she was bid, he eyed Sansa meaningfully, but she shook her head once, ever so slightly. Nothing needed to be done. Not yet. If she was correct, and she usually was, this would play out all on its own.

Once indoors, the warmth from the walls made everyone relax their shoulders ever so slightly. A merry fire crackled and popped in the hearth and luscious furs were strewn about the furniture. Sansa sat and was just about to ask more questions when Ser Davos suddenly had young Daemon up against the wall with a dagger at his throat.

“I’m no fighter,” he said sharply, “but it won’t take much skill with a blade for me to end your life hear and now.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he made no move to disarm his captor. He also chose that moment not to speak, which Sansa found damning. If one were innocent of any wrongdoings, wouldn’t they be protesting – and loudly – at such mistreatment? Unless of course, he knew he had been caught at something and did not want to risk further rebuke.

“So, tell me straight, boy. You’re not who you claim to be. So, who the bloody hell are you?” Davos demanded and gave him a slight shake.

That was when she saw the hilt of his sword, and Sansa knew that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Theories? Let's hear 'em! Not a very long chapter, but they get longer as the tale progresses xx


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos :-) Staying on track, so far xx

Chapter 2

SANSA

Before Maester Wolkan could bellow for the guards – who were stationed right outside the door – Sansa turned and gave the nearly hidden figure a look of icy fury.

“Tell me where you got that sword,” Sansa commanded, her voice firm.

Daemon glanced up at her quickly, but made no move to speak. He made no move at all, actually, save the rise and fall of his chest in time with his quick breaths. Ser Davos jostled him a bit, taking care not to cut his throat in the process.

“Your queen asked you a question,” he barked.

“It was a gift,” the young man said evenly. Sansa shook her head.

“You are lying,” she challenged. “I know whose blade that is, and she would never part with it.”

“You have one last chance, and then I bring in our men,” threatened Wolkan. He was nearly purple in his rage, quiet as he was.

“They are Stark men,” Daemon said darkly, “North men. They belong to no one.”

“They belong to me,” Sansa challenged.

“Only to you?” Daemon countered silkily.

Sansa stopped short and her breath caught in her throat. She was the Queen in the North, yes, but the men would also answer to one other, in her absence. Sansa swallowed as an unnatural chill sank down to her bones and made her shiver. No one had ever made her feel so unsettled. No one, save her late bastardly husband. But he was dead and gone, along with the last of his line, the Dreadfort being left empty as none of the other houses wanted a place with such a wretched history.

“You did say once that you were sure cutting off heads was very satisfying,” Daemon taunted, using words there was no way he could know, pulling on memories that didn’t belong to him. “Care to try it for yourself? Or would you rather try to get us all to work together?”

Sansa’s heart stopped. Like Bran’s magic, Arya’s abilities had never really made perfect sense to her, either. Seeing all those faces in her sack hadn’t made it any easier to imagine. For Sansa, unless she saw how something worked, she couldn’t wrap her head around it. Like with the white walkers. And the dragons. And Bran’s ability to ‘see’ things. And in front of her . . .

“How – how?” she stammered.

A wide, crooked grin stretched across the man’s face. “Is it all very strange and annoying?”

Sansa stumbled back two steps, but then lurched forward, hand outstretched when Davos pressed the dagger into Daemon’s flesh.

“No! Stop!” she shouted.

At her raised voice, her brother’s former adviser flinched and gave just enough room for his captor to twirl from his grip. Somewhere in the fluid motion, Daemon wasn’t Daemon anymore. His face was gone, blue eyes turned grey, brown hair now black and longer than before, and his stature had shrunk considerably, though he hadn’t been a large man to begin with. Buy Arya had always been a slight, slip of a girl, and wasn’t much more than that as a woman. More muscled, to be sure, but not much taller than when they were girls. And she was even more hardened than when last Sansa saw her, sailing from White Harbour in her direwolf headed ship.

As the man he’d known as Daemon somehow melted away into the Princess Arya, Ser Davos gasped sharply as the dagger he’d held clattered on the stone floor. Wolkan paled considerably, but said nothing.

“Seven bloody hells!” Davos cursed as he took many steps back from her sister, looking at her like she was some kind of apparition.

“According to some beliefs, there are more than seven,” Arya provided, her smirk still firmly in place.

“When your brother told me that you’d studied with the Faceless Men in Braavos, I hardly believed he’d meant . . .” Davos trailed off, but he gestured up and down towards Arya’s much changed body.

“You don’t really study with them,” Arya provided darkly, “more like you learn their ways while they try to kill you.”

“And how do you know when you’ve learned everything?” he asked incredulously.

“You’re the one who’s still alive,” Arya replied darkly.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa breathed; she hardly dared to believe her eyes, no matter how much they had just witnessed.

“Not happy to see me?” Arya countered with an arched eyebrow.

Sansa huffed a small laugh and stepped towards her. “Of course I am, but Gods be good, Arya did you have to make such an entrance? Couldn’t you just show up as **you**?”

Arya grinned at the exasperation in her sister’s tone, and Sansa knew why. She sounded just like their mother when she scolded like that. Even Jon had said so on occasion. Sansa was much more comfortable with the comparison in days of late than she had been back then.

“I second that, wholeheartedly,” Ser Davos agreed as he frowned deeply at her wild sister.

“It was Bran’s idea,” Arya provided unapologetically. “He seemed to think it wouldn’t be safe for you to travel with a Stark, royal or not.”

“He thought you’d be attacked?” Sansa asked, alarmed.

Arya shrugged. “He didn’t say. Only that I should wear another face and make sure Ser Davos made it to Winterfell.”

“You had me convinced of your story for a while,” Davos said more calmly than before. He wandered over and sat on a settee by the fire. Wolkan had taken a seat sometime during her explanation as well.

“Only a while?” Arya challenged.

“You made a mistake when talking about being from Skagos. They never call themselves Skaggs. That’s only something other Northern houses called them in derision. It’s like an insult to them,” Sansa explained. It was how she’d known that Daemon wasn’t who he’d claimed to be. Not that she’d had any idea who he really had been, but she knew he wasn’t from Skagos at the very least.

“I never did pay attention to all the lessons as closely as you did,” Arya grumbled.

“Take heart, Princess,” Davos was back to his usual amiable sense, “you had me convinced until we arrived at Winterfell. And we’d been travelling together for nearly ten days.”

“I’m not a princess,” Arya bit out around a scowl.

“Not a traditional one, that’s for sure,” Davos provided with a nod in her direction. “But you’re sister to the Queen, which makes you, deadly as you are, a princess.”

“Don’t mind her, ser Davos,” Sansa said evenly, more settled now that she knew who exactly she was dealing with. “She’s always gone her own way, but that’s never made her any less of who she is or less loyal to her family.”

Sansa took steps towards the sister she hadn’t seen in a year and was relieved when Arya smiled and accepted her embrace. She had missed her, strange and unladylike as she was. It was wonderful to have at least one piece of her family back in Winterfell. She’d long grown lonely without the luxury of bumping into them around every corner.

“It is good to have you home,” she murmured genuinely as they released one another.

“Well, I couldn’t very well stay away with you doing such a piss poor job running the North,” Arya said pointedly with a cocked eyebrow.

Sansa immediately bristled at the criticism. How dare she?! Sansa was Queen, and she was a good queen. Her people were fed and housed, the smallfolk and lords were generally happy, and she was overseeing the rebuilding of many great houses, her own included, to repair the damage years of wars had inflicted upon their lands.

“Before you give me a right royal scolding for my insolence, _your Grace_ ,” Arya said with as much mockery as she could muster, “just tell me one thing.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, but she bit out,” What is it?”

“Who are your sworn shield and Hand of the Queen?” she challenged.

Sansa did her best not to shrink under the inquiry. Truth be told, she had been on the lookout for a suitable Hand since her coronation. She had thought to appoint Maester Wolkan, but didn’t want to overburden the man. Plus, as loyal as he had been to her, he had served under both Lord Boltons, and that was not something she could ever forget.

“Since when do you concern yourself with politics?” Sansa countered flatly. “Last time we spoke, you were more than content leave the ruling to me while you, once again, set off on countless adventures.”

“Since they concern the life and livelihood of my only sister,” Arya shot back evenly. “Or do you forget what happened the last time I left you to make your choices? Littlefinger was quite the advisor, if I recall, until I cut his throat.”

“And who passed that sentence, dear sister?” Sansa reminded her. “Besides, you are far better with a blade than I.”

“And you are far better a lady,” Arya allowed with a small smile, “and a Queen.”

Sansa nodded, glad that was out of the way. They usually had to have their quarrel before they could move on to better and easier things.

“Which is why I am here,” Arya said with a nod before she took a knee and held needle out on the flats of her gloved hands. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if needs be – but I swear to come back and haunt you if I fucking die for someone else’s stupidity, especially yours. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

“You can’t be serious?” Sansa gaped at her.

“Pretty sure that isn’t your part of the vow, your Grace,” Arya said sardonically.

“Arya, you can’t be my shield,” Sansa tried to reason.

“Why not?” her sister shot back. “I’ll best anyone in this castle, and you bloody well know it!”

“It’s not – you’re a – people won’t –“ she stammered.

“Oh dear,” Arya mocked, “Queen in the North, lost for words? Running out of excuses? Stumbling around, trying to find a polite way to say that you don’t trust I’ll keep you alive?”

That brought Sansa up short, her cheeks flushed with anger. “Of course, I trust you!”

That seemed to give her strange sister pause. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Princess Arya,” Wolkan interjected, “is that it’s not customary for a woman, particularly one of noble birth, to be in anyone’s service but her lord husband.”

Davos snorted. “Try telling Ser Brienne of Tarth that, I dare you.”

Wolkan paled slightly, but did not take back his words. “She was not a princess.”

“No, she was ten times better,” Arya said bluntly. “And I promise you, my needlework is far more impressive than any princess you’ve ever seen.”

Sansa stifled a laugh. Same old Arya, different person to battle with. Arya turned her attention back to her, still kneeling.

“I can wear Daemon’s face, if that’ll make all those puffed up lords more comfortable.” Her scowl was impressive.

“My issue is not your gender,” she assured her. “You are my only sister. I cannot replace you and I will not risk you. Not ever.”

Arya blinked twice. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Sansa smiled at the familiar words, spoken in darker times. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Are you refusing my service, then?” Arya almost looked disappointed.

“No, she isn’t,” Ser Davos interjected. Then raised his hands in a placating motion when Sansa turned surprised eyes to him.

“Before you toss me out of here on the bones of my very old arse, hear me out,” he requested. Arya snorted a laugh, but Sansa merely nodded her head once.

“Your brother, my King, wouldn’t have sent her here if not for this purpose. I’ve learned better than to question him, with his omniscient ways and peculiar way of talking. He must have seen something, or knows something, that we don’t.”

“What else is new?” Arya muttered, but kept her sword held aloft.

“And furthermore, Jon wouldn’t have done it,” he concluded with a meaningful look at Sansa. Her eyebrows rose a fraction, which caused Davos to smirk.

“Jon was many things, but at times he was a touch too proud to accept help or advice, particularly from you, your Grace. While I don’t think it was because you were a woman, I do think he did himself – and you – quite an injustice. I would advise you, should you wish to hear my counsel at all, not to repeat his mistakes, your Grace.”

Ser Davos had always been an eloquent man. The speeches he gave were sometimes more effective than those Jon did, but he wasn’t a man who spoke just to hear the sound of his own voice. Which was why Sansa took the time to consider his words and help her come to the decision she probably would have anyway, just in her own time.

“I vow you shall always have a place by our hearth, and meat and mead at our table, and pledge to ask no service of you that should bring you – or our family – dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” She altered the words, just as her sister had, although hers had more grace and far less profanity.

Arya rose fluidly and gave Sansa the worst curtsey she’d ever seen, which made everyone in the room laugh in a way made the moment pass more easily. She sauntered over towards the fire and tossed herself sideways into a cushioned chair. Everyone else found a suitable perch as the environment shifted again to one of greater ease.

“Now that that’s settled, who’s going to be your hand? This guy?” Arya jerked her chin at the Maester.

Sansa kept her expression carefully neutral. “While I already seek out Wolkan’s counsel, he is overburdened with being the only fully trained Maester north of White Harbour. I would never be so unkind as to overload him so.”

Wolkan smiled kindly at her. “I appreciate her Grace’s kindness. Though I hope you know I would always endeavor to serve you in any way you asked of me.”

Sansa nodded and returned his smile. She was sure he would do a fine job, but there was part of her that could not place that much trust in him. She wasn’t entirely sure she could place it in anyone.

“How about you?” Arya turned to Ser Davos, who immediately shook his head.

“Never mind that I am already employed by your kingly brother, but I don’t have much luck being Hand to anyone,” he said evenly before a wistful sadness clouded his gaze. “Nor have I been great at serving or protecting Queens or Princesses.”

Sansa had heard about the little lady Shireen, and how the Red Woman had burned her alive at the stake to sacrifice her to the Lord of Light. Ser Davos had obviously loved the little girl very much to be so moved by her death to vow murder. But it had all been for naught. Melisandre had given herself to her God once the Long Night was over, and Davos never got his vengeance.

“Mayhaps you could help us find one?” Her sister had been right on that front; it was past time for her to have appointed such a significant position.

“I must admit, I wasn’t sure why King Bran had sent me here,” Ser Davos provided. “Your sister is more than capable of making her way North without issue, and it certainly wasn’t to provide anyone any kind of protection. I’m not a warrior by any stretch of the imagination.”

“And yet, when you thought her in danger, you were quick to place a dagger at my throat,” Arya pointed out. Rather than scolding, she sounded impressed. But that was the easiest way to impress Arya. Throw yourself into danger and be ready to sacrifice for those you love. She and Jon were cut from the same cloth that way.

“While we would welcome your counsel on finding me a Hand, I believe you were sent for another reason,” Sansa informed them as she took the scroll she’d received that morning from a pocket in her gown and handed it to him. Once he’d read the contents, he passed it to Arya. That surely scored him another point in her book. In truth, it impressed her as well. He was not like Baelish; he didn’t do things for appearances. He did things because he wanted to or thought it was useful.

“I know you’re not keen on chopping off heads,” Arya started to say when Sansa gave a rather unladylike snort.

“How did I know that would be your first impulse?” she asked rhetorically. “No trial, no inquiry, just shorten him by a head.”

“Actually, I was going to say, let’s try it your way. Wait for his next letter, and meet him in Winter Town. Diplomacy and all that horseshit,” she drawled as she cleaned under her fingernails with the tip of the dagger she’d used to kill the Night King.

“While I lack your sister’s social graces,” Davos said with a pointed look at a very unbothered Arya, “she does seem to offer sound advice. What harm could come from meeting this lord? Do you think he means you ill?”

Sansa pondered the question a moment before replying. “Lord Glover was never overly warm with any of us, but he’s not a stupid man. And it would be incredibly stupid to attack his Queen.”

“Really? Because I think hiding out in Deepwood Mott after pledging his loyalty to Jon was incredibly stupid. I still can’t believe you let him keep his lands and titles after such a stunt,” Arya muttered loudly enough so that no one missed a single word she grumbled.

A wry smile twisted Sansa’s face. It was not long ago she would have done just that. But she had learned from her mistakes and from the mistakes of others. That was not the way to inspire loyalty. Nor was it the way to get her people to love her.

“Lord Glover has since apologized and has been sending soldiers and provisions from his own private stores. He is fiercely loyal to the North, as he was to our father. I try not to hold those mistakes against him . . . much,” she admitted at the end.

“Wasn’t he the one who suggested you should be Queen once Jon went to Dragonstone?” Arya asked with narrowed eyes.

Sansa nodded. “But we’re just assuming this is actually from Lord Glover.”

“You don’t know the man’s signature?” Ser Davos asked. Sansa shook her head.

“The scroll he’d sent Jon before the Long Night must have been destroyed. And there is nothing here to compare it to.”

“But it was a sealed scroll, your Grace,” Wolkan reminded her.

“So?” Sansa argued. “Anyone can steal a seal. Or have one made, for that matter.”

“It’s a grave offence to impersonate a lord,” Ser Davos reasoned. “Which means, someone must be willing to take the risk because they think the outcome could be well worth it. Which begs the question: who do you think is trying to get you alone, your Grace?”

“One sure way to find out,” Arya provided.

“You cannot be serious, Princess Arya,” Wolkan objected before Sansa could even open her mouth. Arya folded her hands behind her head in a show of great nonchalance.

“I assure you, she is,” Davos muttered before he scrubbed his hand wearily down his lined face. “Not that it’s my place to say, your Grace –“

“But I’m sure you will anyway,” Sansa interjected.

“You asked for my opinion, so here it is. Your sister, now your shield, is correct. The surest way to get to the bottom of this is to merely show up as requested. It is also the most dangerous, not that I expect that to bother you that much, but it’s not just your skin you are risking,” Davos informed Arya with a pointed look. “It’s your sister’s, your Queen’s. So, with that in mind, do you still think this is the way to go?”

Arya glanced at Sansa a moment before she twisted in her seat and planted her feet on the floor and her hands on the tops of her thighs, posture rigid.

“Do you think I’d let anyone hurt her?” she asked darkly. “Do you think I would suggest something if I wasn’t completely convinced that I would in control of the situation the entire time? Do you think I don’t know that she’s already endured enough, suffered enough? Tell me, Ser Davos, do you think me careless, or just plain incompetent?”

“I do not think you are either of those things.” He shook his head vehemently. “But I also think you might overestimate yourself while underestimating your potential opponent. Don’t get me wrong, I know you are one of the toughest, deadliest people around, and not just for a woman. I know men grown who would turn and run the other way if they thought you were coming for them. I know you are capable of protecting your sister, and yourself. I also know, that having this kind of confidence often blinds even the best warriors, and that can cost them greatly. So, be better than them. Her life depends on it.”

Arya considered him for a full minute before she nodded. “Alright then, tell me what I’m not seeing.”

“You’re still not sure who you are up against. What if it’s more than one person? What if they aren’t there to talk and all they want is to murder your Queen? What if this is a plot to overthrow House Stark so someone else can claim the Northern crown? Have you considered any of these things?” He listed off the concerns Sansa had in the back of her mind since she’d read the scroll that morning.

“Or worse,” Arya continued from his thoughts. “What if this really is from Lord Glover, and he has his entire retinue of soldiers camped out in the Wolfswood, and it’s only me with that Braavosi blade and mt sister against an army?”

“First of all, we’ve established that Lord Glover isn’t an idiot, so I highly doubt he’d be willing to risk the security of his house in a battle he is sure to lose,” Sansa answered back.

Davos provided, “Not that you would need it, but I hope you know that the full might of the six kingdoms would rain down upon whatever fool tries to harm the sister of the King Bran.”

Sansa gave him a small smile. Whatever Bran had become, he was still her brother, and somewhere in there he knew that, too. He would never let her lose her crown, or let harm befall her. Which was, no doubt, why Davos and Arya had arrived at the same time as her message.

A knock at the door stopped them all, and as Sansa bid them enter, a soldier entered.

“Begging your pardon, my Queen,” he said as he bowed deeply. When he stood again he did a double take when he noticed Arya lounging in a chair, his eyes wide with shock.

“What is it, ser?” Sansa implored.

“A rider from Deepwood Mott,” he said nervously as he stepped fully into the room. “There’s been an attack with many dead, your Grace. And Lord Glover is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say there would be reunions, didn't I? Thoughts so far?


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! A day early. Enjoy xx

Chapter 3

SANDOR

The King’s road was covered in snow and they hadn’t even reached Winterfell yet. Stranger walked along at a comfortable pace, not seeming to mind the increasing cold the farther North they rode. How the old boy had survived everything over the years was a bit of a mystery, but he was still with him. His trusty companion. The hell beast no one else could tame. He was as ornery as ever, but had mellowed somewhat.

_Like his master._

Sandor snorted at the thought and trudged forward. People travelled more since the end of the wars and peace had been restored to Westeros. But there were always going to be bandits and outlaws and those looking to make easy coin off of the weak and vulnerable. Cloaked as he was with a cowl to keep out the cold, he doubted anyone would try their luck with someone his size. Even if they recognized him, he knew his reputation still proceeded him, and that was enough for most to give him a wide berth. Which was good, since his fighting days were over. He was too old and too damaged to be a soldier again. He had even traded in his sword – for an axe. Easier to carry and swing, and was useful for other tasks besides killing. Not that he’d have to lift a finger should they be set upon.

“I forgot how bloody cold it is up here. No matter how much I move, I can’t seem to get warm.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. “I forgot how much you whinge about everything.”

“I’m not whinging.”

“We’ve had this talk before,” Sandor reminded him tersely. “Stop bitching all the time, boy.”

“I’m not a boy.”

Sandor turned to consider his riding companion. The lordly man-child hadn’t taken no for an answer when Sandor told him where he was headed and he’d insisted on accompanying him. He’d tried to reason with him, but to no avail. In truth, Sandor was impressed he’d lasted as long as he had being lord over his own castle, people bowing and scraping all the bloody time.

“Apologies, Lord Baratheon,” Sandor all but sneered the title.

Gendry scowled. “Don’t call me that.”  
“It’s what you are. Better get used to it,” Sandor recommended with far less hostility. It wasn’t the boy’s fault the Dragon Queen had decided to raise him up and legitimize him. He’d been used to being a bastard; a smith. He didn’t know how to run a castle any more than Sandor knew how to play a fucking harp.

“Could get me into trouble, calling you by your name,” Sandor continued to barb.

“I think we’d be in less trouble if people thought we were just two low borns making our way north.”

At least the lad wasn’t a complete idiot. Sandor nodded and turned back to watch the road. They weren’t far from Winter Town. They could stop at the inn there and rest up, or continue the short distance to the castle. The weather looked foul and ready to turn worse at any moment. It would probably be best to stop and rest. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception they’d get at the castle, especially if they arrived after nightfall.

“Then you won’t mind another night spent at an inn,” Sandor rasped.

When Gendry groaned dramatically Sandor chuckled lowly.

“Only a lord for a year now and already you’re a pampered little shit.”

Gendry glared at him. “No, I’ve just gotten used to not having flea bites all over my arse or sleeping in a bed that smells like piss.”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with how close we’re getting to your lady love’s castle.”

The lad’s expression clouded over, and he muttered, “She’s not my lady love.”

“That’s ‘cause she’s not a lady,” Sandor supplied dryly. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself.” Sandor shrugged, unperturbed. It wasn’t his fault to new lord had gone and fallen for the she wolf.

As they approached Winter Town Sandor could see much more activity than he’d anticipated so close to sunset. Soldiers from Winterfell, as well as other Northern houses made patrols, while others went door to door demanding entry for inspection. Before their horses could even cross onto the cobbled path, two knightly shits stepped in their path.

“State your names and business here,” one demanded roughly.

“Fuck off,” Sandor spat and tried to urge Stranger on, but the dumb cunt stepped in front of his horse. Before the dead man could shout or Sandor could snarl, Gendry dropped his hood.

“Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storms End, here to see Queen Sansa.”

So much for lying low and being commoners. Sandor kept his cowl wrapped tightly around his face. He knew his reputation was much improved following his efforts to keep Arya alive all those years – and especially on the night of the worst massacre the North had ever fucking seen – but he wasn’t sure how many of those shit-for-brains knights knew. And he wasn’t about to cross swords with any of them. Not when they were so outnumbered.

The two soldiers bowed their heads in deference, and the one in front of Stranger looked back up at Sandor only slightly less suspicious than before.

“And you?” he asked.

“Is with me,” Gendry said in a tone that welcomed no arguments. Yes, only a lord for a year, but he seemed to be settling in just fine.

The soldiers looked at each other and nodded once. “Head to the castle and make yourself known to lads at the gate. They’ll stable your horses and announce your arrival to the Queen and Princess. Make haste. The town is under curfew and once the sun sets anyone found wandering about might find themselves in irons, lord or no.”

“Arya’s here? I thought she was off sailing the world?” Gendry’s casual use of her name seemed to irritate one of the guards, but the other shrugged.

“Yes, m’lord. She turned up not a week ago. Decided she would stay for a bit. Then all the madness happened with –“ He was cut off by a sharp elbow to his ribs, and looked guiltily at his companion, whose expression was one of warning.

“Erm, anyway, just go to the castle, m’lords. They’ll receive you there.”

Gendry nodded once and led his horse in the direction they’d indicated. Sandor glowered at the two shitheads, but followed closely behind. There was only one way to find out what in the hells was happening, and that was to ask the Little Bird herself. He’d trust no one else, save the she wolf, to give him a truthful answer.

At the gate it was the same bullshit all over again. Only he wasn’t allowed to get away with not providing his name. Reluctantly, he unwrapped his face. Scarred at he was, there was hardly a soul in Westeros who didn’t know him by sight or rumor. He’d half expected sneers of disdain, but one of the men actually looked somewhat pleased to see him and even tipped his hat at him when they led the horses in. Called him ser. Unlike before, he didn’t bother correcting him. Not like he could anymore. Sometime during his healing in King’s Landing, the crippled King had decided not just to knight him, but to name him Lord Clegane, and granted him Clegane Keep. He’d yet to tell anyone that secret – not even the lad knew. No one’s fucking business, really. He’d never cared much for titles.

He’d led Stranger into the stable and untacked him. The horse still allowed no one near but him, and there was a small part of him that preferred it that way. He warned off the stable hands and made sure they’d provided good feed after he’d given him a long brush down. He’d shoe him later. As he stepped from the stables, he saw the boy speaking to the Maester. He trudged through the ankle-deep snow over to them.

“Her Grace is awaiting your both in her solar,” he heard the old man say.

“Not the hall?” Sandor asked, cautious.

“Good to see you, Clegane,” the Maester welcomed warmly. “Her Grace receives most visitors in the Great Hall, but friends in her personal solar. If you’ll follow me.”

He knew the way, of course. He probably knew most of the castle grounds, seeing as how he’d spent the better part of a fortnight walking its walls, waiting for an attack that came far sooner than anticipated. The grounds were in far better shape than the last time he’d set foot in Winterfell. She’d done well in the year past. Not that he’d expected any less. The Little Bird was made to be a Queen.

Once inside it became unbearably warm for him, and he quickly removed his cloak and cowl. The leathers he worse underneath had seen better days, and he definitely needed a bath. He’d tend to those needs later. Hopefully he didn’t offend her Grace’s delicate sensibilities.

Welcomed into the solar, he saw Gendry hesitate at the door and snorted loudly. The younger man narrowed his eyes, squared his shoulders and strode in like he owned the fucking place. Chuckling under his breath, Sandor followed with much less swagger. While he’d parted with Sansa on good terms, he wasn’t sure how she would feel about seeing him again. Perhaps she’d want to keep her past just that – in the past.

“Good to see you back on your feet, my lord.”

_Seven buggering hells . . ._

Ser Davos sat in a cushioned chair near the fire, while the Queen sat behind a stately desk. The she wolf was perched casually in the window sill directly behind her, but Sandor knew nothing about the way she conducted herself was casual. He’d seen what she could do. He wasn’t stupid enough to pick a fight with her. Not anymore.

“My lord?” The Little Bird looked up at him with the most beguiling blue eyes and it took all his power not to say something completely fucking stupid in a room full of people who would hold that stupidity over his head until the day he died.

“Yes,” Davos went on with a smile, “it seems your brother saw fit to reward this man for all the aide he’d not only provided the North, but especially to you, Princess.”

Sandor took immense pleasure in the scowl that clouded Arya’s face. His own grin must have matched the Onion Knight’s, because even the Little Bird seemed to stifle a small laugh at her sister’s obvious disdain for the comment.

“Glad to be of service, Princess,” Sandor taunted with a slight bow.

“Whatever happened to never saying any vows?” Sansa asked lightly.

Sandor tried not to frown when he replied, “There’s no vows to become a lord. Even he managed it. Seems they’re just handing out the fucking titles lately.”

He was rewarded with a low oath under Arya’s breath and laughed. She finally turned her attention to the greenest lord to ever walk through Westeros next to him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

The two of them stared at each other awkwardly for a moment before Sansa rose and walked around the desk, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“I’m afraid a proper catch up will have to wait, though I am very happy to see you both,” she announced with a small genuine smile that warmed him. He’d gotten so used to seeing her courtly façade, even once she’d returned to Winterfell, that it relieved him to see a little bit of her real self burst through her Queenly armour. He secretly lived for those unguarded moments.

“Yes, we – erm, saw some – uh, there seemed to be –“ Gendry stammered as he tried to look anywhere but at Arya. Sandor rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” he sighed. “Shut your hole if you can’t complete proper sentences. She’s just a bloody woman.”

Arya didn’t even bother to hide her grin, mean little wench. Not his problem though. He’d rather deal with mean than cold. And her sister was colder than the fucking Wall if she chose to be. So far, he’d been lucky enough not to say anything that caused her to frost over. He turned to her and tried not to stare. Bloody hard with how beautiful she was.

“Seems you have some problems again up here?” There. That was respectful enough. When the Maester glowered at him he reluctantly tacked on, “your Grace.”

Her lips twitched with a barely suppressed smile, but she nodded. But before she could open her mouth to speak, the Maester interjected.

“My Queen, are you sure these men are trustworthy?” he asked bluntly. Sandor hadn’t expected any less, but Gendry visibly bristled.

“I’d trust either of these two before I’d trust you,” Arya snapped from her perch. If Sandor had a heart, he would have been moved by her defense of him. The lad seemed somewhat placated by her outburst as well.

“Maester Wolkan, you’d be forgiven for not recalling just how much help these two gentlemen have been to the North, and to her Grace and the princess in particular. Lord Clegane even assisted Jon north of the wall before fighting off white walkers so that Princess Arya could kill the Night King.”

Seaworth made it all sound so bloody heroic, but that wasn’t how it had been at all. Even Gendry flushed under the praise and rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.

“I don’t give two shits what you think of me,” Sandor informed him evenly, “I only care what they fucking think.”

“You’d do well to mind your tongue in the presence of our Queen,” Wolkan blustered, but Sansa held her hand up while Arya simply laughed loudly.

“Not bloody likely,” she contributed from her corner. “You’d have greater luck sprouting wings and flying to Braavos than you would of ever getting this one to mind his manners.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa interjected firmly, but the corners of her mouth twitched and her eyes glowed with repressed humor. “There are far worse things a man can do than curse, and I’d much rather have Sandor – Lord Clegane, speak his mind.”

Her correction from his proper name to his puffed up title irked him, but he let it pass. It was not the time to have that conversation. Especially not with a thrice-damned audience.

“So, we leave you alone for five minutes and already your kingdom has gone to shit?” he asked with a smirk. She returned one of her own, with a saucily raised eyebrow.

“The North is doing very well, thank you,” she provided smartly. “But it seems one of our Lord’s has gone missing.”

“Probably went somewhere warmer,” Sandor quipped. “Men don’t like it when their balls freeze. Makes it harder to produce little lords.”

Wolkan puffed up indignantly, but Sansa once again waved away his objections. The rest of the room’s occupants didn’t even bother to hide their grins. They knew he had a point.

“While I will take that opinion under advisement,” the Little Bird retorted dryly with a roll of her sapphire eyes, “his castle and lands were attacked. His wife and children are safe, having hidden somewhere during the attack. But Lord Glover has not been seen for nearly a week. And then, there’s this.”

She walked over and placed a scroll in his hand. The seal was broken, but he recognized the Glover’s sigil. He read it quickly and scowled. More fucking intrigues. He hated bloody royal courts.

“This arrive by raven?” he asked.

“No, it was hand delivered to me by a boy the morning of the attack.”

“Who else saw him?”

“Pardon?” Sansa looked a little confused.

“The boy who gave you the scroll. I’m assuming your shield –“ he stopped when a flush crept up her neck and settled into her pale cheeks.

“She didn’t have a bloody shield until I got here,” Arya bit out, clearly annoyed. He didn’t blame her. What in the seven hells had the bloody bird been thinking? He worked to keep his tone respectful. He didn’t want to be thrown out on his arse.

“Who’s your shield now?” he tried not to growl.

“What, you’ve got wool in your ears? I just said it was me,” Arya snapped again. He took a moment to glare at her, but she returned it unflinchingly. It only increased his respect for the she wolf.

“Where was the boy from?” he grunted.

“I assume Deepwood Mott,” Sansa started to say, when Davos interjected.

“But we’re not exactly sure. He didn’t provide her Grace with a name.” 

Sandor scrubbed a hand down his face. Did no one else see the issue? How close she had come to losing her throne – her life – if the little cunt had meant her harm? And all withing the fucking walls of her own castle. He started to think of all the reasons why someone would deliver a message like that to their queen, but his head began to ache something fierce. He hated plots and intrigues. Didn’t have the stomach or the patience for them.

“You have a Hand?” he all but demanded.

When she hesitated again he tried not to growl under his breath, but somehow didn’t quite manage it. Teeth clenched, he looked to the Onion Knight for some information that wouldn’t make his fucking head explode.

“We are currently exploring our options for a suitable Hand to the Queen,” he said rather diplomatically.

“What’s wrong with you?” The Onion Knight seemed to have served her bastard brother well enough.

“I already have a job, thank you,” Davos reminded him with a smirk. “And I would not put my hand up for such a position again, meaning no offence, your Grace.”

Sansa smiled warmly at him and nodded in understanding.

“And none of these Northern twats worthy enough?”

“While your language does not offend, your description of my people does,” Sansa stated in a tone that sent chills through him. The Ice Maiden had appeared.

“If they’re so great, why don’t you have an advisor yet?” he challenged.

“Are you volunteering, my lord?” the Maester asked with obvious disdain.

Sandor snorted, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say. It was a trap, and he damned well knew it. Stupid cunt thought he was smarter than him. Most people did. Many of them were wrong.

“I don’t actually think that’s the worst idea,” Arya contributed with a look of interest. In truth, he could think of nothing worse. All the scheming and secrets and strategy gave him a fucking headache. He had no patience for it. But if she asked . . . he knew he’d deny her nothing. So, like the idiot he clearly was, he opened his mouth and said the dumbest words he’d ever uttered.

“I would do whatever the Queen asks of me.”

He couldn’t quite describe the expression on the Little Bird’s face at his words, but it wasn’t angry and she’d seemed to thaw out somewhat. She stared openly at him for a few moments before she walked back around the desk and took her seat, her posture perfect but not stiff.

“I think this is an important discussion that is best suited for when we have more adequate time,” Sansa started to say when he rolled his eyes and huffed a small laugh.

“That’s an awful lot of words for ‘no’.”

She pointedly ignored him and continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“But I would ask you, both of you, to stay a while, if that is satisfactory?” It was a request, not a demand.

“I would like to stay, of course, but –“ Gendry stated as his eyes flickered towards Arya, “I should probably make my way back to Storm’s End sooner rather than later.”

“Castles do not run themselves,” Davos said around a grin, which the lad returned.

“Yes, I’m learning that.”

“You should stay until the weather clears,” Arya said suddenly. Sandor chuckled.

“It’s the bloody North,” he rasped. “The weather never clears.”

Like her sister, she chose to act like he hadn’t spoken. “You can always send a raven and let them know you’ll be returning once the snowfall stops.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Gendry reluctantly allowed, his face redder than even.

“Can’t risk you losing your lordly parts of frostbite,” Sandor taunted.

“What about you, my lord?” Sansa asked a little too sweetly. It caught him off guard. What in the hells was she asking him?

“I haven’t lost anything yet, Little Bird.” The name slipped out before he could stop himself and he saw as her eyes widened slightly. But it was out there and it wasn’t like he was going to bloody apologize. They stood and stared at one another for a breath before she cleared her throat and smoothed her hands down the front of her silver gown.

“I meant; do you need to send a raven to Clegane Keep to inform them of your time away?” Her voice was not as steady as before, but her gaze met his unflinchingly.

“No need,” he rasped. “No one there, far as I know.” The place could be a pile of rubble for all he cared. He knew where he wanted to be, and it wasn’t in the South.

Sansa nodded and rose from her seat. “Well, then we will make up guest rooms for you both. You’re welcome to train with the Master at Arms, Ser Gerrik. We’ll all take our supper this evening in the Great Hall, if you’d care to join us.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he turned to leave after he gave what could possibly described as a bow. Before he reached the door, a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned and saw her cerulean eyes closer than they had ever been, save that cursed night when the whole of King’s Landing glowed green with wildfire.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to have a word with you after you’ve had a chance to settle in and rest a while. Would you meet me in the Godswood at the heart tree after supper? I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

He could have made any number of inappropriate replies just to see the red stains on her cheeks. He didn’t. Instead he nodded once and took his leave, quickly, before he opened his fool mouth and uttered words that neither of them needed him to say.

_No, definitely not hate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think she wants to discuss, hmmmm?


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love! Keep it coming xx

Chapter 4

SANSA

She had needed to leave the solar before more words tumbled from her lips that she couldn’t stop. She had tried not to rush from the room, but with her quickened pace, Arya immediately noticed that something was off. So, naturally, Sansa went on the defensive. Another Baelish trick she’d picked up after all their time together.

“You handled that well,” she stated airily.

Arya’s frown deepened. “There was nothing to handle.”

A little sigh of relief nearly escaped Sansa’s lips. She pushed forward as they made their way towards the Great Hall to oversee the preparation for their guests.

“Like it or not, he’s the man you love. Just because you’ve decided that you don’t want to be a lady, doesn’t mean he no longer means anything to you.”

“Don’t tell me what I think or how I feel,” Arya snapped peevishly.

Sansa stopped walking and turned to her. “How do you feel? Why are you home? What made you come back here? We haven’t had a chance to really talk about anything but the issues I face as Queen. I still don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve seen. I’m sure you have some very interesting tales to tell.”

Arya studied her evenly before a knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “I do, and I’ll be happy to tell you all about them. But only after you tell me why you’ve just run out of your own solar like your arse was on fire.”

She started walking again, her face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t –“

“You did,” Arya interjected blandly. “But I can’t figure out why. Does it bother you that I slept with Gendry? Not very high born of me, I’m sure.”

Sansa gave a rather unladylike snort. “Plenty of ladies bed people when they aren’t supposed to.”

“Do you not like him?” Arya wondered aloud.

Sansa cast her eyes towards her sister. “I don’t really know him, to be honest. But, from what I’ve seen and heard, he sounds like an honourable man. You could do far worse, you know.”

“We’re not discussing me right now, we’re discussing you,” she countered. Sansa tried to hide her frown.

“So, that leaves Sandor, then,” she reasoned out loud. “Do you still hate him? For being Joff’s protector? For the way he was in King’s Landing? I used to hate him. For Miccah. For a lot of things. I don’t anymore. I didn’t think you still would either.”

Sansa swallowed. “I don’t hate him. I . . . I never hated him. Not really.”

“They why run away?” There was no judgement in her sister’s voice; only curiosity.

Not ready to answer that question, even to herself, Sansa took another direction.

“Did I ever tell you he offered to take me from King’s Landing?”

Arya’s steps faltered, but she kept pace with Sansa as they wandered through the Great Hall, watching scullery maids bustle about to set up the space to host a meal for so many. Sansa, for her part, kept her expression neutral while she spoke, but couldn’t stop her heart from pounding in her chest.

“The night that Stannis attacked the city. Blackwater Bay was lit up with wildfire. The green glow was everywhere. I was hiding in my rooms, hoping not to be brutalized if his soldiers attacked the Red Keep. Hiding from Cersei. He was there, waiting for me.”

Sansa had to pause to make sure her voice did not waiver. “He held a knife to my throat and demanded a song. I didn’t know what he meant at the time, so I sang the Mother’s Hymn. He . . . I don’t think he was expecting that.”

Something stopped her from saying that he cried that night. Somehow, she didn’t think Arya needed that information. As it was, her sister stared at her with an unfathomable expression, impossible to read. She kept going.

“Somehow, even with steel pressed to my throat, I just knew he wouldn’t do anything. I even said ‘you won’t hurt me’. He agreed that I was right, and then offered to take me away. Bring me home. He swore that no one would ever hurt me again, or he’d kill them.”

She stopped and swallowed thickly. It was harder than she thought it would be, telling someone the story. She’d discussed, very briefly with the man himself. It hadn’t been that difficult. So, why was it harder to tell Arya?

“I didn’t go, of course. I’d already laid my trust in Ser Dantos, the great fool. He was being controlled by Baelish, which I didn’t know at the time. But I didn’t want to go with him. Sandor. I was afraid of him and his anger. I didn’t trust him enough because he always seemed to be drunk and hateful and – and –“

She stopped to even out her breaths, which had become ragged. One more look around the Hall and she was comfortable enough to step outside into the dying light. She turned to look at her sister fully, but Arya’s expression was still carefully blank.

“I don’t regret it, not going with him. If I had, he might never have found you. If I had, I might never have grown up.”

“If you had, you wouldn’t have been married to the Imp, the Bastard.”

Sansa swallowed, but nodded. “True. But I have come to terms with those parts of my past. They don’t define me, or who I am now.”

“Do you really mean to speak with him alone?” Arya pried, a knowing look on her long face.

Sansa sighed and cocked an eyebrow. “Heard that, did you?”

“My hearing is excellent, you’ll come to find.”

Sansa made a show of smoothing her hands down her dress. To those around her it may look like she was concerned with her appearance at all times. But really it was a way to move when she felt her hands shaking that helped to disperse the energy before anyone else noticed the tremor. She could not ever afford to look weak. Of course, Arya missed nothing.

“Alone for you isn’t really alone,” she informed her cryptically.

“I am aware,” Sansa replied evenly. In truth, she felt that much better to have her sister lurking in the shadows all the time. Safer than she’d ever been.

“What do you want from him?” She didn’t sound judgmental, merely curious.

“I want to discuss a few matters he might be able to help me with,” Sansa replied carefully. She wasn’t ready to share everything that had crossed her mind since his massive frame had entered her solar. Some things were hard to admit even to herself. One step at a time.

“Matters that require a private audience?” Arya tsked and shook her head. “My, my, Queen Sansa. What about the appearance of impropriety?”

She was so much her little sister in that sentence that Sansa had to resist the urge to poke her tongue out at her. Instead, she rearranged her features into a implacable mask.

“Are you sure you want to play the game of faces with me, dear sister?” 

Though Sansa knew that Arya would never harm her, her sister’s tone sent shivers up her spine. She tried to keep her rigid posture, her icy exterior in tact when she glanced down at her, but the openness of Arya’s expression caused it melt away in a flash. She hadn’t truly had a confident in so long; and she longer to unburden herself to someone she knew she could trust with her secrets, no matter how big – or bad – they were.

“I have been getting ravens nearly every fortnight from the Eerie.”

Arya’s eyes widened for a moment, before a chuckled escaped her. “Seven hells.”

Sansa heaved a great sigh and rubbed her forehead with a gloved hand. “He’s just so persistent. And, to be honest, I’ve put him off longer than I thought possible.”

“You can’t be seriously considering marrying him?” The disgust was clear on her sister’s face. Sansa tried to keep it from hers. It was not Queenly to openly show your feelings for so great an offer.

“Of course not,” she assured, “But besides being our cousin, Robyn Arryn and the lords of the Eerie did me – us – a great service in their aide to retake Winterfell. We would not have won that battle without them. And Robyn was always kind to me, even when he was young and overly spoiled.”

Arya made another face. “Just because he helped you, doesn’t mean you owe him for the rest of your life. Or that you owe him your life.”

“I know that, Arya,” Sansa said gently as she raised her hood up to shelter her hair when a gentle snow started to fall.

“Is it just him, then?”

Arya had always been far too clever for Sansa’s comfort. And these days she missed nothing. It was exhausting as it was liberating not to have to hide every little thing all the bloody time.

“No,” she admitted. “There are several offers on the table, all from respectable Northern – and even some Southron – families. I’ve been wading through them for months. Maester Wolkan is quite entertained.”

“Any contenders?” She said the words simply enough, but Sansa could tell the idea of her being married off to anyone – especially for political gain – made Arya angry. It just made Sansa tired. And scared.

“There are few that have not been dismissed out of hand,” she admitted, “but none that I would be overly happy with.”

She grinned fully when she turned to her sister. “One of the Lords suggested Gendry. I about hand him thrown from the room.”

Briefly, Arya looked stricken, but the expression was just a flicker before her passivity resumed. Sansa leaned over and brushed great flakes of snow from her sister’s ebony crown, not bothering to hide the gentleness of her eyes.

“I wouldn’t ever have considered it,” she told her softly. “He belongs to you, whether you want him or not.”

Arya made no motion to show that she heard her, save the slightest nod of her head.

“So, how can Sandor help with this? You want him to go kill all your suitors?”

A shudder passed through Sansa’s frame. “I do not think he would do such a thing for me.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Sure, he wouldn’t.”

“Really, Arya –“

“He talked about you,” she blurted suddenly. “While we were on the King’s Road. He’d mention things to me about what it was like for you in the capital. At night, when we slept, sometimes he’d talk in his sleep. I think it was about you, but he never used your name.”

Sansa’s heart pounded so hard and so fast she was frightened it would break free from her chest.

“What did he say?”

“He would say he was sorry. Most of it was just drunken ramblings I couldn’t make out. Always something about a bird or a cage.”

Sansa swallowed reflexively as his voice floated through her mind, saying the name he’d always used just for her. In her thoughts, his voice was softer, kinder than she’d ever heard it. Almost tender . . .

“You’re blushing,” Arya said suddenly, and she looked too damned happy about it.

“I’m not,” Sansa denied although she felt the heat in her cheeks.

“It was you, wasn’t it? A caged bird? Sounds like you. You always were so damned chirpy.”

“I want his advice about the kind of Hand I should look for,” Sansa stuttered as she desperately tried to regain control of the conversation. She could tell Arya wasn’t fooled, but blessedly she didn’t challenger her.

“He’ll say something vulgar,” she warned with too wide a grin for Sansa’s comfort.

“I’m sure he will, but even in that he’ll give me the truth.” He always told her the truth, no matter how bad it was. No matter how much she hated it.

“You gonna tell him about your suiters, too?” Arya looked way too interested in that for Sansa to even consider answering.

“You two seem to have a very strange kind of friendship,” she countered with instead. It was like they enjoyed being as mean as possible to the other, but liked each other all the more for it. Strange indeed.

Arya grinned fully. “I’m like the annoying little sister he never asked for, who could probably best him in a fight, but won’t let anyone else even try it.”

“Sounds like he and I have something in common then,” Sansa quipped.

Arya eyed her meaningfully then. “I’d say there is plenty you have in common if you took the time to really get to know each other as you are now, and not keep hanging on to the people you were all those years ago.”

It was a rare moment of serious wisdom from her sister where neither insult nor injury came with it. Sansa took the words to heart and nodded in acquiescence.

“More so than any puffed up Lord who wants your hand, just for your crown,” Arya said bitterly.

“Honestly, I think it’s just the crown that interests them all, except maybe Robin.” She had known this for some time, but rarely voiced it to others. She couldn’t stand the looks of pity and concern when she did. They made her stomach curl.

Her sister considered her for less than a moment before she shook the snow from her hair and shrugged.

“Everyone’s got scars,” Arya said, then gave a wry smile. “Even Lord Clegane.”

Sansa couldn’t help the grin the spread across her face at the title.

“He must have hated waking up to find that Bran hadn’t just knighted him, but lorded him.” It was immensely amusing to think about.

Arya’s cackle rang through the frigid night air. “Mister ‘Piss on your vows’ and ‘not a fucking ser’ is now a fucking lord!”

Sansa gave Arya a disapproving look for her choice of language, but not the mirth in which she used it. Truth be told, you could have knocked her over with a feather when Ser Davos greeted him as ‘my lord’. The merriment was enough to see her through a long meal with all the company under Winterfell’s roof. She found she was even able to keep a genuine smile in place while she and Arya hosted Davos, Sandor, and Gendry at their family table. If anyone had earned the honour, it was those three men.

When the meal concluded Sansa gave Arya a meaningful look. She nodded and seemed to melt into the shadows behind her, but Sansa could practically feel her grey eyes still on her. It gave her a sense of comfort – albeit an unsettling one she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to. Their exchange didn’t go unnoticed. Sandor had his eyes trained on her as she donned her warm cloak and bade the room good night. No sooner had she crossed through the gate into the Godswood did she feel his hulking presence at her shoulder; the heat of him nearly permeated through her furs and gown.

“Talk fast, Little Bird,” he rasped. “I don’t know how long we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a long chapter, but the next one *could* be up early if enough people ask oh, so nicely ;-)  
> What do we think Sansa wants from Sandor, hmmmmm?


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's such a short chapter, I've decided to update early :-)  
> There were over 350 hits on this last chapter, but only a few of you said hi. I'm wounded ;-)

Chapter 5

SANDOR

Her wide, blue eyes blinked up at him in the moonlight. The earlier snow had passed and not a cloud obscured the heavens above them. It made for a beautiful sight, but an even colder night.

“I didn’t survive my cunt of a brother just to freeze to death while the Queen of the bloody North stares at the stars or talks to a tree,” he said evenly. There was no bite to his tone; not with her, not anymore. She’d had enough growling and snapping – and worse – to last two fucking lifetimes. He wouldn’t add to it.

A slight smile tugged at her full lips and she clasped her gloved hands together in front of her before she moved a few paces into the woods. He followed, albeit a bit reluctantly. It was bloody stupid for her to be out there alone, even if she was with him. He wasn’t the warrior he once was and she was the future of her house. A cripple can’t father children, and Arya was just as soon to geld a man than let him get her with child.

“There were reports that you’d died, for a while.”

He knew that, of course. But once that Kingly brother of hers had heard of his survival, those rumors were replaced with far more wild depictions of what he’d done. Most of them falsehoods that made him throw his head back and laugh. People that hailed him a hero seemed to have short fucking memories.

She turned to look at him fully and gave a small, but real, smile. “I was very happy to hear that had been false. It would have been an unjust ending to a man such as you.”

“Nothing just about the world, Li – “ he stopped himself, unsure. She hadn’t scolded him before, but he wasn’t sure if that would continue to be the way. “Your Grace.”

When the smile stretched across her face and her giggle reached his ears, he tried not to scowl at her.

“You don’t have to use titles while we are alone, Sandor,” she said calmly. “I know how much you mislike them.”

He nodded, but said nothing else. He wasn’t good at conversation. He’d always waited until someone needed to be shut up or he’d received an instruction. Didn’t see the point in waffling about. Little Birds were different. Or at least, she used to be.

It unsettled him somewhat, the open way she regarded him. Her calm, quiet demeanor while she did so. He tried not to twitch under her gaze, but it made him uncomfortable. He shifted from foot to foot. He thought he’d be relieved when she finally parted her lips to speak.

“I need your help.”

“You need me to kill someone?” he guessed. Happy to do it. Especially for her.

Her lips twitched. “No, thank you. I have a shield who takes care of that, if needs be.”

He nearly cracked a grin as well. “I noticed that. Where is she now? Skulking about in the trees, waiting to decapitate me?”

Sansa laughed outright. “She likes to cut off heads, but no. I believe she wants to keep you intact.”

“That’ll be something new and different for us,” he muttered, but found himself still giving a half-smile. The she wolf was entertaining; he’d give her that.

Sansa shook her head in disbelief. “You two have a very interesting friendship.”

“Is that what she calls it?” He supposed it would classify. It was strange, the idea of a friend. The last one he’d made had died suddenly. He hoped it didn’t become a trend.

Sansa shrugged and took a few steps closer to him. Without the distance, he could see the moon reflected in her eyes. It made them glow in a way that did strange things to his pulse. He kept still so as to not give anything away. A woman – this woman – did not need any more power over a man. She had enough. She had it all.

“I have a problem,” she started. “Well, several actually. First, I have a missing Northern Lord and an unnamed attack on a Northern castle under my protection. We are no closer to solving this issue – or finding Lord Glover – than we were when it first started.

“Second, I have no Hand. I need an advisor; one I can trust. One who will tell me like it is all the time and not worry about my feelings, because sometimes those feeling will not best serve the North.

“Lastly, the Northern Lords have all demanded that I marry – again,” she tacked on with some difficulty. He felt his anger mount even before she drew breath to continue speaking.

“I need heirs,” she admitted with reluctance. “And while I am not above legitimizing some orphaned child I take into my home and raise as my own, I am well aware of the issues that child could face once I am gone from this world. Wars have been fought for less, and I won’t leave my child to fight one just to prove they are mine and the rightful heir.”

“Who rules the North?” he asked rather bluntly. Her raised chin and straightened shoulders told him his question had hit the mark.

“I do,” she said in a tone that allowed no argument. He nodded.

“Fuck what they think, then. It’s your rule that is law. Marry if you want. Take conquests or paramours if you fucking want to. You’re the Queen.” The idea of her doing any of these things made him both irrationally angry and incredibly drained. It was a strange contradiction.

“I want to be a good Queen,” she said just as firmly.

“That means you have to do what they say?” he asked acerbically. She was completely unperturbed by his tone.

“Not at all,” she countered. “But it means that it’s not about me. It’s about what’s best for the North. And it’s not best to put anyone in a position where they feel like they can or should challenge my reign due to a lack of heirs.”

“Who is heir now?”

“Arya.”

Sandor didn’t hide his snort. “She’d be a shit Queen.”

The Little Bird suppressed a smile, but she nodded in agreement. “It is not something she would ever want for herself.”

“Where is she lurking about? Shouldn’t your shield be shielding you from harm?” he taunted in a low voice.

Sansa openly appraised him. “She’s around, but we all know I am in no danger with you. You’d never hurt me, Sandor. Of that I am completely certain.”

He rolled his eyes at her constant diplomacy. Transparency was so much better. Saved time. And it didn’t make him want to punch people in their ugly faces.

“None of this seems like something I can help with,” Sandor informed her evenly.

That had her attention, and she didn’t like it. “And why not?”

“Because you said I can’t kill anyone.”

In a completely unguarded moment, Sansa rolled her eyes up to the sky in exasperation. The sight nearly made him smile.

“You and Arya really are one in the same,” she muttered to herself. When she looked back at him, her expression was bemused.

“Who would you recommend to be my Hand?” she asked openly.

“Someone smart.”

“So, someone like Tyrion then?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. He matched her expression and leaned a little closer.

“Someone smarter than you.”

She seemed surprised. “You don’t think he is?”

“Not by half,” he told her honestly. The Imp wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought himself to be. And it had nearly gotten him – and other people – killed more times than he could count.

“So, someone intelligent. What else?”

“Needs to be someone your lords will respect. No sense having them fight you every time your Hand announces a decision.” She already knew all of this. He was certain of it.

“Anything else?” She was hiding a little smile. He wasn’t sure if he liked it when she was being sneaky which clearly, she was.

“Someone who will tell you that acting like Cersei or Baelish isn’t a good fucking idea,” he practically snarled.

Her expression held too much mirth. “So, someone honest and with some kind of moral code? Along with intelligent and has earned the respect of the North? That’s quite a list. Someone like that might not be easy to find.”

“Good luck with that." Not his problem.

“No one springs to mind, then?”

“Not my area of expertise, Little Bird. Best to ask that twat of a Maester.” He may be a cunt, but he seemed to have more than just shit for brains. She wouldn’t have kept him around if he didn’t.

“You have more value than that of a trained warrior, fierce as you may be.”

“If you say so.” He wasn’t going to argue with her. It wasn’t considered polite to correct the monarchy.

“I do,” she provided with a knowing nod. “But I also know you hate to be forced into anything. So, I am going to ask something of you, Sandor Clegane.”

She walked up so close to him that the frozen clouds of mist from her warm breath fanned over his chest as she stared up into his eyes.

“I would like to ask you to stay on here as my advisor, my interim Hand, until such a time as a permanent one can be appointed. What say you?”

He felt as though he’d swallowed his tongue. He should have known she was concocting something so daft. It took him a moment to gather what was left of his wits and form a reply that wouldn’t get him thrown from the walls of her great frozen castle.

“You’ve lost your mind, Little Bird.”

Far from the anger he’d expected from his accusation, Sansa’s eyes lit with barely suppressed laughter.

“It appears that way, doesn’t it?” she answered.

He waited a few moments for her to say something else, to get annoyed with him and demand he do as she bade him. None of those things happened. Instead, she reached forward and took one of his large hands in her soft, gloved ones.

“You often tried to get me to see the world the way it was when I was too young and too naïve to really understand what you were doing for me. I thought you cruel and hateful and mean. You were none of those things; not to me, anyway. I couldn’t value you properly then because I did not know how. That has changed. I have changed. And I can tell that you have as well. Do this for me, please. I won’t demand it of you. I won’t demand anything of you. But I do ask it of you.”

Her little speech sounded so unrehearsed that he found himself thinking on her words. He was all that she said, and she was more than she remembered. He supposed that’s how all people see themselves. There was only one thing he needed to know.

“Why me?”

“ _Because a hound will die for you, but never lie to you, and he’ll look you straight in the face_.” She quoted his words back to him from so many years ago.

“You may no longer be the Hound, but your honesty remains. I need that, especially now when so many people around me either tell me what they think I want to hear, or tell me what they want me to think that benefits them. Very few, if any, care what it is I really think or feel about anything. I need someone who tells me how it is and helps me make good decisions. You may not always like what I do, and I may not always like what you say, but I swear that I will always be honest with you as you are always with me.”

It was as close to vows as he’d ever come with a woman. And the fact that it was _this woman_ made his insides tremble and shake. He couldn’t fault her logic, though. Everyone she had trusted and gone either South or North. Who do you trust when you are surrounded by those who always want or need something from you? She had learned from her time with Littlefinger and Cercei, and she was determined to be better than either of them.

“I’ve no interest in politics and courtly bullshit,” he warned. She grinned fully and squeezed his hand in hers.

“I am well aware,” she chirped happily. “So, you’ll do this?”

He tried to give a vicious scowl, but when her smile didn’t falter, he knew he’s missed the mark.

“Aye,” he grumbled his assent. “But only until some suitably puffed up Northern lord can replace me. I don’t have the stomach for diplomacy or the patience for gossip. I’ll shorten people by a head if the aggravate me too much or I find they are lying to either one of us.”

“No wonder you and Arya get along so well,” she murmured, but he could see the relief and happiness shine through her. He never thought he’d ever be responsible for making her look in such a way. It pleased him far more greatly than anything had in many, many years.

More than killing Gregor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's not such a wordy guy, but at least we're getting somewhere! Next chapter up soon xx  
> Leave me some love and it will be up sooner :-D


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a quick note. Throughout this story you'll see a blend of books and show. In the show there are many characters that are simplified, or Houses that only feature a few people. In the books it's much more extensive. So, I'm not usually making up characters (although sometimes I will for my own purposes) when you see that a supposedly extinct house (from the show) suddenly has living members you've never heard of. I try to explain it in the storyline just enough to give you the info without boring you to death with little details.   
> You can always ask if it's someone I made up, or someone in ASOIAF canon.

Chapter 6

SANSA

“With all due respect, your Grace,” Lord Manderley blustered, “but isn’t there someone of the North that would be far better suited for such an honoured roll?” 

It had been a fortnight since Sandor’s appointment as interim hand, and the Lords and Ladies of the North had not kept their opinions to themselves on the matter. Which was precisely what she had hoped for when she had asked him for his assistance. While it was true that she needed someone she trusted in order to move forward and navigate the growing issues in her kingdom, this was the side effect she’d been counting on to smoke out some of the quarrels between houses that she may not have been privy to. She did not have her own flock of little birds, as Varys always called them. Nor would she. It was not her way to spy and sneak.

“Did you have someone in mind, Lord Manderley?” Arya chimed in from her place at Sansa’s shoulder.

The lords of the greater houses had started to trickle in over the past week to address the attacks on not only Deepwood Mott – who’s lord was still missing – but the reports of activity in the Dreadfort. Since those lands still technically belonged to her – to the crown – no one was permitted on them. Still, some of the smallfolk had made their way to Winter Town after they claimed to have been attacked by bandits. Or wildlings.

Sansa had written to Jon immediately. While she knew that he had a good connection with many wildlings north of the Wall, she was not naïve enough to believe he knew every last one of them. Nor that Tormund was able to keep them all in line and stop them from venturing ‘South’ – as they called it – to continue their previous ways of life. Of course, once those rumours began to circulate and they reached the ears of the lords of the North, Sansa knew she would have her hands full trying to mitigate the responses most Northerners would have to anything related to wildlings. The cooperation and comradery from the Battle of Winterfell would undoubtedly be forgotten in favour of generations of battles between Northern families and those beyond the wall.

Wymann Manderley seemed to remember what Arya was capable of with the wary way he eyed her, but he kept his posture and eye contact with them both.

“I would never presume to tell her Grace who to appoint –“

“You just did,” Arya cut him off with an arched brow.

“The Northern lords have been discussing –“

“Bitching in dark corners, more like,” Sandor grumbled.

“ – and we would like you to consider one from one of your most loyal houses,” Manderley continued in a louder voice as he tried to talk over Sandor.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak her Hand did so for her.

“For fucks sake,” he growled. “The Queen doesn’t answer to you, or anyone else. She chose me and that’s her right. Bitching about it won’t change that fact.”

Sansa’s eyes slid over to Sandor’s in a quick look of warning. He shrugged one shoulder and she had to keep from rubbing away the headache behind her eyes. She’d known, of course, that Sandor was crass and abrupt. She had rather hoped he would mind what little manners he had when addressing her court. It had been a fool’s hope, obviously.

“Lord Manderley, as I have stated, many times,” she stressed in a tense voice, “Lord Clegane is my Hand only until we have found someone who wants the role permanently. You are wasting your energy, and my time, with this continued objection. This is my final say on the matter. And we have much more pressing concerns than who I choose to work with to rule over the North.”

She could see the discontent in the set of Manderley’s brow, but the man nodded once and spoke sincerely, “Of course. Forgive me, my Queen.”

Sansa nodded her head once and then squared her shoulders. “Have we any reports on who had been haunting the Dreadfort?”

“Haunting might be the truth of it, your Grace,” Manderley muttered darkly. “I’ve had ravens from Lady Mormont –“

“You get ravens from dead girls?” Ser Davos quickly interrupted, a look of incredulity on his weathered face.

Sansa gave Lord Manderley – unaccustomed to such treatment – a small smile as she turned her attention to Davos. “Lady Lyra Mormont, Lyanna’s older sister. She was being held captive by some of Euron Greyjoy’s men. Once he was killed, Lady Greyjoy had all the captors released and personally saw they were returned to their own lands.”

“I had no idea any of house Mormont survived, your Grace.” Davos looked genuinely surprised, and pleased. Sansa had been very pleased as well. House Mormont were loyal to the bitter end, and Lyra had thus far proven to be exactly like her mother and younger sister.

“You were saying, my lord?” Sansa turned back to the man who was waiting patiently.

The meeting continued much more calmly and pleasantly than before. Sansa discovered that Bear Island had been set upon two moons back by some small force of fighters, but had quickly dispatched many of them before they disappeared off the island as quickly as they had come. They’d appeared in the night, during a thick fog and seemed to move with the mist, appearing and disappearing again without a trace. Even the dead were gone once the light had come and warriors of Bear Island went looking for their remains. The description Lady Lyra did provide was similar to those that came from Deepwood Mott: people dressed in furs and cloaks; the fashion of wildlings.

Sansa made arrangements to send ravens to every Northern castle with a warning of the potential threat, and a promise to discover who was behind it. This was her responsibility as their queen. When the hall cleared off all but her chosen few, Sansa placed a weary hand over her eyes and groaned quietly to herself.

“Shall I fetch something for your head, your Grace?” Wolkan asked kindly.

“No, thank you. I need to think clearly.” She couldn’t afford to have her wits numbed just because she was in a little pain. She’d had worse. So much worse.

She looked directly at him and made a decision. “We have had no word from the Wall in nearly a month, despite the numerous letters we’ve sent. That is not like Jon.”

“You think something’s wrong.” It was a flat statement, not a question, that came from her sister. Sansa turned to her and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“I do not know,” she answered truthfully. “Jon and I never did become as close as the two of you, but he always replied to my ravens before. He never sent ill tidings. And you should know, he is Lord Commander again, though this time it sounds like the rules a different for the Brother’s of the Nights Watch.”

“Different how?” Dantos asked, curious.

Sansa allowed a small smile as she recalled several of Jon’s missives. He’d sounded so proud of the changes he’d made. In truth, she was proud of him, too.

“For starters, the Free Folk are allowed to come and go as they please. Many of them have even joined the Watch. Some women, too. It’s become less and less of a place to go as punishment – although I know there are those still sent for that reason. There are little camps along the length of the Wall where small villages are starting to establish themselves. He’s told me it’s quite peaceful.”

“Sounds like he’s found some wildling girl to warm his bed and doesn’t want to be seen as a bloody hypocrite,” Sandor rumbled.

Sansa frowned but did not bother to argue with him. He could very well be correct. Jon always had been very fair with his men, never placing a rule he wasn’t going to follow himself.

“As noble a gesture as welcoming wildlings south of the Wall,” Wolkan said carefully, “perhaps there were some less than peaceful ones that have started to look for a new place to call their own. Perhaps they are behind the attacks.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa allowed, but something niggled at the back of her mind. “But from what I recall of the Free Folk who followed my brother, they didn’t have interest in staying in once place, or building a life anywhere. And they had no desire at all to kneel to anyone else and claim loyalty. I can’t see why they would wander through the North, picking fights and kidnapping Lords.”

“Not all Free Folk were like the fat Maester’s wife or that dumb fucker, Tormund,” Sandor reminded her. “There are always men – and women – who crave power. And they will stop at nothing to get it.”

“You think it’s wildlings then?” Arya asked as she fiddled with the dagger Bran had given her.

“I think it doesn’t matter who they are,” Sandor said with a shrug. “They’re killing and attacking your castles. Who gives a shit what why they are doing it?”

“A person’s motives tell us everything we need to know about them, include how to get ahead of them,” Sansa told him evenly.

Sandor’s eyes narrowed and he muttered under his breath, “Fucking Baelish.”

Sansa felt herself pale slightly, but did not let her discomfort at the reminder of just how much influence that man had had over her life, her mind, show on her face.

“You should send a rider to the Wall,” Ser Davos suggested suddenly. “If you are right, and there is no reason that Jon hasn’t gotten back to you, he may not be getting your ravens. Or, things may be far worse than we anticipated.”

“Are you volunteering, Ser?” Sansa asked with a small grin. She had seen how much Jon and the knight had enjoyed each other’s company when one was King and the other his hand. She would not deny him the opportunity to see her brother (cousin) again.

“Me, heavens no,” Ser Davos said jovially. “Though I’d love to see the man again, I detested the Wall. Coldest place in the bloody world and the ale is simply awful.”

Sansa smiled. The man wasn’t wrong. The ale was the worst thing she’d ever tasted. Well, almost.

“I should go,” Gendry piped up from the back corner he’d been hiding in for the whole meeting. Truth be told, he’d been so quiet that Sansa almost forgot he’d been there.

“Why you?” Arya asked bluntly, clearly displeased by the prospect.

Gendry huffed a big sigh and gave an exaggerated shrug. “I dunno. I’m a lord, aren’t I? Isn’t this what lords do? Serve the crown?”

“Your lord of Storms End, you dumb shit,” Sandor said with no malice. “You’re felty is to her brother, not her.”

Gendry’s cheeks coloured, but he raised his chin and crossed his arms over his chest. “So? You think King Bran would be bothered by my helping his sisters – sister,” he stuttered.

Sandor snorted loudly, muttering something about rolls in the hay, when Gendry started to speak over him, loudly.

“I’ve been there before, more than once. No one knows me up here, so I can travel more easily and attract less attention than anyone carrying banners. Plus, Jon knows me. He’d trust me with any message you sent, and you know I’d put it directly in his hand only.”

Arya’s expression was more than just bemused when she took a few steps towards him. “Well, look who’s gone and turned into a lord.”

“Still can’t use a fork properly,” he countered with a half smile. Arya smiled back, something lighting her eyes that was entirely unfamiliar to Sansa.

“You’ll learn,” she said softly.

“There are plenty of bedchambers in this castle,” Sandor interrupted gruffly. “Go find one and continue fucking in there. No one wants to see this.”

Sansa gave him an exasperated look, purely at his crassness. He wasn’t nearly bothered enough by her distaste as he shrugged. She was, however, incredibly amused at the look of shock on his face when Arya walked from the room and smacked his meaty arm on the way out.

“Stop focusing on my love life and worry about your own, Hound.” She stopped at the door and looked directly at Gendry. “You coming?”

The poor man looked like he’d swallowed his tongue, but his feet moved quickly enough to follow her from the hall. While Sansa found it highly amusing just how disturbed Wolkan was by the prospect of Princess Arya going to couple with someone – even if he was a lord – underneath her mirth lay something darker. Something twisted and vile and noxious that wound through her like a creeping vine, twisting its thorns into her most tender places and opening the wounds she’d worked tirelessly to close.

She must not have been as good at hiding her feelings as she’d always believed herself to be, because once Wolkan left to send the ravens and Davos muttered something about sending word to Bran about the situation in his sister’s Kingdom, she found herself alone with her wretched thoughts – and Sandor. Rather than just stand there stupidly and be stared at, she turned to him with a raised brow.

“I need a bit of air,” she said as imperiously as she could manager. “Walk with me.”

While his brow went up at the command, he said nothing, just followed her from the room and out into the courtyard. She had thought to walk the battlements as she was wont to do when she needed some time alone or to clear her head. But somehow, she’d found them wandering into the Godswood. By the time the heart tree came into sight, she breathed heavily and her face was flushed from her quick pace. She greedily gulped in the cold air as she tried to settle her stomach and stop her hands from shaking.

Sandor had been quite the entire time, only glancing at her out of the corner of his eye from time to time. His face was calm, nearly pensive, but without the angry set to his jaw she’d become so accustomed to in King’s Landing. It was only once they’d stopped for more than a few moments that he spoke again.

“That why you won’t marry again?” he asked bluntly. “Don’t want anyone else to touch you?”

Bile tried to climb its way up her throat at the mere thought and it took intense effort to keep it down. Once she was sure her breakfast would not make a reappearance, she cleared her throat.

“I will marry again,” she noted the tremble in her voice and worked very hard to steady it, “when I find a suitable match.”

Sandor hummed quietly, but offered nothing else. In truth, she could not tell if he believed her or not. And for the life of her she couldn’t understand why his disbelief would even matter. But it did. Greatly. Which was probably why she started talking again. To explain. To make him understand. To get him to see things her way.

“I had already decided on a husband before the Battle for Winterfell,” she informed him as evenly as she could manage.

“Did you now?” he didn’t sound impressed, or convinced.

She turned and looked him right in his grey eyes. The storms she’d once seen there had calmed, but the cloud still remained, threatening of rain and thunder at a moments notice. Still, she felt no fear. Only strength.

“I did,” she confirmed.

“So, why aren’t you wed with little wolf pups hanging off your . . . hips.”

She nearly smirked. She was entirely sure that her hips wasn’t the part of her body he was going to say. She almost thought to press him on it, but decided to answer his question instead, much as it pained her. His blue eyes flashed through her mind. She wasn’t sure who had trembled more when she’d finally gathered enough courage to lean into him and press her lips softly to his, a farewell; their final one.

“He was lost in the battle for against the Night King,” she said softly.

Sandor regarded her shrewdly for a brief moment before he all but spat,” That little Greyjoy shit?”

Sansa bristled at his words. “You didn’t know him.”

“Didn’t he betray your brother?” Sandor challenged.

“He saved Bran from the Night King,” she bit back, angered by the reminder of what Theon had once done.

“Arya took out the Night King,” he corrected, his voice more careful than before.

“He saved my life!” she snapped.

“After he stood around and watched as you were raped and sliced up by that cunt you were forced to marry,” Sandor sneered. “Heard the Greyjoy gave you away. You think he knew what you were in for? Think he could picture what the Bastard had planned for you?”

“He didn’t have to picture it,” she screamed suddenly so overcome she couldn’t contain herself anymore. “He was there. He saw everything!”

Her voice was strained as her shouts echoed off the trees. It caught viciously as she tried to stop her tears from coming.

“You have no idea what we survived! What he was like! The things he did!” Her whole body shook with fear and fury and the agony of pain revisited that she’d long tried to lock away behind her armour of courtesies. Behind tricks and cleverness. Behind ice and snow and the stone walls she’d built around her heart. Walls stronger than that of Winterfell. It was the only way she could survive.

“And you gave him what he deserved,” he all but snarled at her. He looked angry, but somehow, she knew it wasn’t at her. “Fed him to his fucking hounds while you watched.”

“I did,” she said almost excitedly, her breathing fast and hard as the images swam through her mind. “I watched as they ripped the flesh from his face and tore muscle from his limbs. I watched as his life’s blood poured from his wounds and seeped into the stones. I heard his screams and their snarls. It was like music; the best I’d ever born witness to. And it still wasn’t enough, so later, I watched them put those beasts down and burn their bodies. I swore to myself that no man would ever hold any power over me again. I was my own. I belong to no one but the North. I will never again let myself be anyone’s victim.”

Sandor was quiet. It unsettled her further just how still the man had gone. Almost as if she had frightened him. He scarcely breathed as he continued to regard her with eyes softer than she’d ever seen from him, or from any man not her kin. It did strange things to her insides, seeing a man like him look at her in such a way.

“As you say, Little Bird,” he finally murmured, his voice quiet. Not quiet gentle, but softer than she’d ever heard it before.

The unexpected kindness she saw in him in that moment rattled her. It shook free the long dormant desire that she’d held when she was a little girl; to have someone big and strong love and protect her the way she’d seen with her father and mother. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to fully squash it back down again as fully as before. So, she did the next best thing. She wrapped herself in the armour of her courtesies and ice as she tried to regain the upper hand she always needed to have in order to feel safe.

“What do you think of Gendry going up to the Wall with a message for Jon?”

Sandor regarded her evenly for a second before he shook his head slightly and snorted out a little laugh.

“The lad wants to freeze his balls off running errands for you when a squire would be just as adequate, that’s his problem.”

“You don’t think he should go?”

“Didn’t say that,” he shot back.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” she tried again, drawing on what was left of her patience. He seemed to be doing the same when he bit back.

“Aye, and I told you what I fucking think.”

Sansa tried not to sigh too heavily as she regrouped and tried again. “Would you recommend someone else? Another raven instead? Would you rather go?”

“Eager to be rid of me so soon, your Grace?” he drawled rather sardonically. Sansa rolled her eyes skyward.

“If that were the case, I’d just banish you from the North and be done with it,” she quipped. When she looked back at the rather infuriating man before her, she was a little surprised to see the grin that had spread across his usually somber face.

“Is that what it takes to get you to like me?” she wondered aloud. “I have to scold you or threaten you in some manner?”

“Didn’t know you wanted me to like you,” he threw back without missing a beat.

Sansa was nearly tripped up by the statement, the careful accusation in his words, but chose careful nonchalance instead of embarrassment.

“Doesn’t everyone want to be liked?”

“How the fuck should I know? You ever see me giving a rats ass what people think of me?”

Sansa’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Come to think of it, no. Not ever. Not even Joff or the Queen. You weren’t even afraid of them.”

“Because they weren’t worth fearing,” he provided. When Sansa scoffed, he amended his words. “For me. There was nothing they could do to me that was worse than what’d already been done.”

“You don’t know that. They were creative in their punishments,” she said with a barely disguised shiver.

“Can’t threaten a man with anything when he fears nothing.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “You fear things. I know you do.”

He met her glare with one of his own. “Do I?”

“Fire,” she said evenly. “I remember you the night the Blackwater burned. And I heard what happened during the Battle for Winterfell. You were ready to give up then.”

“But I didn’t,” he growled, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“No,” Sansa allowed with an open look of appraisal. “And I heard why. I know it was seeing Arya in danger that motivated you again. You seem to have a particular knack for looking out of us.”

Sandor didn’t say anything and an unpleasant thought wormed into her mind and burrowed deeply there. It discomforted her more than she would ever care to admit, though she could not reason why. She swallowed once and tried to appear merely curious. Like the answer to her question didn’t have the power to wound her somehow, even though she didn’t know why it would hurt, only that she was certain that it would.

“Do you care for her? Arya?”

Her question seemed to startle him so much that she actually saw him flinch at her words, eyes wide. He blinked at her a few times before a wry smirk twisted his scarred lips.

“That bother you, Little Bird? That men seem to find her appealing despite how little a lady she resembles, while you were always valued as only that?”

The words hit her harder than she’d expected, but somewhere in the back of her mind she’d recognized that he hadn’t really answered her question. Instead, he’d pulled one of her secret insecurities out of the depths of her soul and spread it out in front of them, plain as day. She’d never understood why all the men in her life – all the good ones – had seemed to prefer Arya over her. She was everything a lady was meant to be. And Arya was . . . not.

“That’s not a no,” she informed him through tight lips.

His laugh was like steel scraped over stone, rough and loud. She got the sense though that he wasn’t laughing at her, not exactly. And yet, his reaction rankled her so much she felt herself tremble.

“I suppose in some way,” he finally relented. “She’s not so bad. But I’m not like the boy lord that can’t get enough of her.”

Sansa tried not to smile as she thought of poor besotted Gendry. She wished Arya would just give him what he wanted, even if that meant she had to go and be lady of Storm’s End and no longer stay in Winterfell.

Sandor’s eyes swept the length of her then, and something about the glow in them made her feel hot all over and exposed. She swallowed and resisted the urge to step back. She had to look right into this face, reminder herself who he was, and who he wasn’t. It helped, but only a little.

“I’d rather not have a woman who could probably best me with a blade.”

His admittance startled a little laugh of her. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

He shrugged, unbothered by her words, as he continued to stare heatedly at her. They stood there for countless moments, neither saying a word, while the wind whistled through the trees and knocked branches together in some sort of wild serenade that made Sansa’s skin prickle in a pleasant way she’d never before experienced. She drew in a sharp little breath when Sandor finally opened his mouth to speak.

“Your Grace!” a harried voice called from behind them.

Sandor cursed under his breath and she had to stop the silly grin from taking over her face when she saw how the large man’s scowl had frozen some poor squire in his tracks. He looked like a deer caught by a predator, poor boy.

“What is it?” she called pleasantly.

“Riders, your Grace,” he told her immediately and tried to skirt his way around Sandor. The larger man watched him with narrowed eyes as the boy slipped closer and to Sansa and dropped to one knee. He looked no more than five and ten, if that. He was slightly built and wore a simple woven cloak against the cold.

“Do they carry banners?” she started to ask when the lad suddenly leapt up from his knee, a dagger raised over his head, a mad look in his beady eyes.

Sansa wasn’t sure which one of them had screamed. It could have been both of them, for the way it echoed loudly and bounced off the forest walls. All she knew was that the dagger never found its mark. And the boy hadn’t hit the ground.

Faster than she thought him capable of moving, Sandor had gotten between them and caught the boy mid-leap by his throat. He’d disarmed him as easily as taking a toy from a child and held his limp frame up against the frozen bark of white tree, his snarling face inches from the would-be assassin.

“Who sent you, cunt?”

The boy glared malevolently back at Sandor, but said nothing. Sansa stood by, panting from fear, as she clutched her cloak tightly in front of her and tried to stop herself from shaking. Sandor slammed the boy against the tree again, and Sansa tried not to flinch at the sound of his skull as it smacked off the hard bark. Sandor got right up in his face again and growled lower than before.

“Who. Sent. You.”

A crazy smile – one that was so similar to Ramsay that it made Sansa feel physically ill – spread across the boy’s face. Blood stained his lips and teeth.

“He’s coming,” the boy said before suddenly laughing maniacally. “He’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me some love! I might just keep updating twice a week ;-)


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! Another update! I might be able to keep this pace if writing keeps going as well as it has. And you've got over 4K words here to enjoy :-)

Chapter 7

ARYA

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to help dress you, _my lord,_ ” Arya snarked as she laced her leather breeches.

Gendry lay amongst the furs in her bed, watching her when she rose to get back to her duties. Protect and serve and all that shit. At least she got to be at home. She’d missed Winterfell on her travels. She’d missed Gendry, too. Which is why she’d bedded him again. It had all happened so easily, neither of them willing to consider the consequences before or during. But after the lust had been sated and their breaths had slowed, the ugly world around them poked its great, miserable head in and reminded them both that it probably hadn’t been the smartest idea. No matter how good it had felt.

“I’d never ask you to,” he said easily as he settled into the furs more comfortably.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She turned to eye him suspiciously.

“What’s it look like?” he said around a massive yawn.

“You can’t stay here,” she informed him flatly.

“Arya, I’m tired. I’ve been riding for days, sleeping in the shittiest inns imaginable just to keep a low profile. And what little energy I had left I just used up on you,” he retorted sleepily as he burrowed into her favourite pillow.

“Gendry,” she tried to sound firm, but within seconds his snores filled the air.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” she muttered, but couldn’t keep the fond smile from appearing on her face. He really did look shattered. The dark circles under his eyes tugged at her heart in a way she wished they wouldn’t. There was nothing good to come from going down that road. That path was not for her.

Arya finished tugging on her leathers and tucked her blades in their proper places. Some could easily be seen, most could not. She was always prepared. Always. By the time she was out in the hall, it was past dark, but the castle hadn’t settled down for sleep. It was chaotic and bustled with soldiers; a feeling of general alarm saturated the air around her.

She silently slipped through the shadows up to her sister’s solar. There were raised voices that could be heard clearly out in the hall. Two guards, more heavily armed than usual, stood on either side of the thick wooden door. They barely even spared her a glance, though both of them bowed slightly, and let her pass without a word. When Arya stepped inside the room, she was nearly suffocated from all the fear and anger that swirled around in the warmly lit space. There were too many bodies, too many voices. At the centre sat her queenly sister, paler than usual, but strangely calm. Everyone else, however, seemed to have lost their fucking minds.

“- careless, unforgiveable!” Wolkan ranted, his face a marvelous shade of purple. “To have our Queen completely unprotected –“

“What the fuck do I look like, you stupid cunt,” Sandor snarled, angry as she’d ever seen him. “You think I’d let anyone harm her? Do you see even a royal hair out of place on her perfect head?”

Aside from calling Sansa perfect – she’d absolutely give Sandor shit for that later – he had a point.

“There is no one else I’d trust my life, or hers, to than this man,” Arya said with finality. Wolkan’s eyes shot around the room and when he was met with a sea of serious faces and nods of affirmation, he seemed to deflate ever so slightly.

“And just where were you?” Wolkan continued, although he was muttering more than shouting since she’d made her point. “Supposed to be her shield . . . out doing the Gods know what with that . . . Starks would be rolling in their graves if they could see . . .”

That last statement was his final mistake. Arya’s eyes narrowed dangerously and her body tensed to spring. She managed to stop herself as a hulking figure appeared between her and her portly target. Meaty hands settled on her shoulder and pressed down hard. She ground her teeth and glowered up at the man who towered over her. He was the only one she’d allow to stop her and walk away with all his limbs intact.

“If you killed all the stupid people in the world, there’d be no one left to rule,” he rasped evenly.

“I don’t plan on killing them all, just him,” she shot back angrily.

“Arya, please,” Sansa said wearily as she wobbled across the room and settled heavily down on a settee. “I’m sure Maester Wolkan meant no offense. He’d never dream of telling any one of us that our parents – highly regarded as they were – would be anything less than proud of what their children had become, would you Maester?”

Sometime during her little statement, Sansa’s voice had hardened to ice and her eyes seemed to glow like sunlit frost. Arya would never admit it out loud, but it was times like that where she was frightened of the person her ladylike sister could be. She obviously wasn’t the only one as she saw the colour drain from Wolkan’s face.

“Of course not, your Grace,” he stammered and turned to Arya. “Forgive me, Princess Arya. I meant no offence. Your private activities are, of course, none of my business and not my place to scrutinize or critique. Most humble apologies to you both.”

Arya never wanted people to bow and scape before her; that wasn’t the kind of power she’d craved. But having him trip over himself to make amends did make her feel slightly better. She hid her smirk, but nodded once to let the room know that her anger wasn’t the problem anymore. Her lack of information was.

“Someone want to tell me what in the seven hells happened?”

“Some dumb shit for brains whelp tried to attack your sister,” Sandor informed her evenly.

Arya turned to Sansa and looked her over very carefully. Sandor was right; not a hair out of place. She looked a bit paler than usual, but no worse for wear. Thanks to him, not to her. Guilt swirled around in her gut. She should have been there. Not even a month as her shield and she’d already failed her sister by simply not being there when she needed.

“I owe you one,” Arya informed Sandor evenly. He looked at her appraisingly for a minute before he shrugged one thick shoulder.

“Would have done it anyway,” he said simply. Arya knew that. Hells, anyone with eyes could tell that Sansa meant something more to him than just a monarch he’d been roped into advising. She just couldn’t reason how much exactly her sister meant to him. Though with the fleeting looks he sent her when she wasn’t looking at him, Arya had developed a fair idea.

“Sandor did an excellent job keeping me from harm,” Sansa said quietly, her eyes flitting about the room. “I felt very well protected.”

She wasn’t lying, Arya knew that. Sansa was still a terrible liar. But something was definitely off. The rigid set to her shoulders, the wildness to her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks. It struck her then; Sansa was scared. No, she was absolutely fucking terrified. And she was barely holding herself together in the presence of all the people in the room. No matter how much she valued or trusted those around her, Sansa would never allow herself a moment of what she considered weakness in front of any of them. When Sansa’s wild, blue eyes landed on hers, Arya saw just how close to the edge she really was.

“Everyone out,” Arya commanded loudly. All the men in the room stopped talking and looked at her blankly. She didn’t have the patience to repeat herself, so she looked at Sandor. He nodded immediately. To his credit, so did Davos.

“We’ll leave you ladies alone,” Davos stated kindly and motioned for the Maester to proceed him out of the solar. When the other man balked slightly, Sandor stepped towards him menacingly.

“Your Princess gave you an order,” he snarled, “now get the fuck out.”

Wolkan rose to his full height and walked out with his head high, determined not to look afraid of Sandor in the least. He almost achieved it, except for the thin sheen of sweat that covered his brow. Once they had vacated the room, and Sandor had made no move to leave, Arya waltzed up to him.

“That means you too, my lord,” she emphasized his title just to irritate him. It had worked gloriously by the way he’d scowled at her. She grinned widely.

He glared some more before he muttered, “See that she eats something. Looks like she’s going to fall over. And be gentle with her, much as you are capable of, wench.”

“That’s Princess Wench to you,” she countered drily. His mouth twitched as he fought a smirk. They were good.

He threw one more concerned look at Sansa, who studiously ignored them both, and stomped out the door. Yes, she was definitely going to question him on just what in the seven hells he felt for her sister and what in the Gods name had really brought him North. Once the door was firmly shut behind them all, Arya made a show of completely disarming. She piled her sword and knives on a side table in plain sight of her already rattled sister. Once that was complete, she walked very slowly across the room.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she said as gently as her voice could manager. She’d never been overly warm, or very good at comforting people. But she could plainly see that Sansa didn’t need someone to tell her to snap out of it. So, Arya tried to channel as much of their mother as she could as she thought how to be of use to her fragile sister in that moment.

“You were busy,” she replied flatly. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. It bothered Arya more than she’d expected.

“You know you were completely safe with Sandor,” Arya tried again. Sansa nodded absently, but her eyes remained glassy and unfocused.

“I know,” she croaked out. “He’d never let anyone hurt me.”

Arya was closer and could see the slight tremble that shook her sister’s frame. She bit her lip, uncertain of what Sansa would want from her. From their mother she would want to be held and told it would all be okay. Arya wasn’t sure she could pull that off, or if it would be welcomed by Sansa even if she could. So, she stopped a foot away and tried to catch her eyes.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she hoped that wouldn’t be too hard. He hadn’t hurt her, that much was clear, but Arya knew that sometimes the threat was worse than the potential action. Particularly when you had a past like her sisters’.

Sansa swallowed thickly and smoothed the front of her gown. She stuttered out a quick story about a boy approaching her in the Godswood to say riders approached Winterfell, and then how he’d kneeled before he attacked her. Of course, Sandor had stopped him before any damage had been inflicted. Physically, that is. Because as she listened to her sister shakily spout out details of the events, Arya could tell that harm had been done.

“Sansa, what were you doing alone in the Godswood?” Arya tried not to sound like she was scolding or judging her. There was no faster way to make Sansa defensive than to make her think you disapproved of her in some way.

“I wasn’t alone,” she said woodenly. Her eyes drifted to the window and black night beyond. “Sandor was out there with me.”

“Okay,” Arya had been glad to hear that she hadn’t wandered off on her own unprotected, but there were still too many unanswered questions. “That’s good. Is there a reason it was just the two of you out in the woods?”

Sansa seemed to come back to herself ever so slightly as colour tinged her cheeks. She swallowed again and tried to shrug at Arya’s line of questioning.

“It’s okay,” Arya said quietly as she stepped a little closer. “You can go anywhere you want; with anyone you want. It’s your castle.”

She had meant the words to reassure her sister, but the opposite occurred. Sansa’s blue eyes filled with tears and her whole body shook violently. Her chin wobbled as she choked out her response.

“No. It’s not. Not anymore. He took it from me. He took everything from me. I’m not safe anywhere, with anyone. And I never will be. Not even here. Not even **_home_**.”

Sansa’s voice cracked on the last word and her tears spilled over her cheeks. Arya held her breath. She didn’t even need to ask who Sansa referred to. She knew. She knew more than she’d ever wanted to know about what fresh hell that cunt had put her sister through night after night. The smallfolk still whispered about it in Winter Town. As Arya knew how to go about without being seen, she’d heard most of the tales spun over around shops and markets.

Arya stepped forward and placed her hands on Sansa’s shoulders, holding them firmly. She looked directly into her streaming eyes and spoke firmly, but as kindly as she could manage with her anger steadily on the rise.

“You took it all back,” she reminded her of the point Sansa had made repeatedly once Arya had returned. “You did that. And you dealt to that whoreson yourself. You saw to the rebuilding of our home. You take care of our people. Maker, the place has never run so smoothly! And your people love you. You belong. **You** do. He never fucking did. And you made sure to cleanse this place of his very existence.”

At some point during her fierce words, Sansa’s eyes stopped dripping, though they remained wide and wild. Her fear remained, but it looked more contained than before. Arya squeezed her shoulders in what she hoped was a comforting way.

“He’s everywhere I look,” Sansa whispered. “Around every corner. I can feel his eyes on me. In my body, I still feel . . . I still . . .”

Arya pulled her into a tight embrace. She felt the backs of her eyes sting with hot tears at her sister’s fear. If she could take it from her, just wipe it from her mind like it never happened, she would. But she knew that would alter who her sister had become, and Sansa was proud of who she was now. Truth be told, so was Arya. She’d never understood her sister when she was so delicate and wishy-washy and full of romantic notions that had made Arya want to spew. But the sister she held against her body was strong and fierce in her own way, especially when it came to her family and the North.

After a few moments she felt Sansa pull from her arms, and she let her go easily. Her sister blotted at her wet eyes with the sleeve of her gown. Arya’s lopsided grin drew a slight smile from Sansa.

“How very unladylike, your Grace,” she teased lightly.

“You’ll do well to keep it to yourself or I’ll have your tongue removed so you can’t tell tales on me,” she threatened with absolutely no heat. Arya snorted.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa started to say when Arya abruptly cut her off.

“Don’t be stupid,” she realized her error immediately and softened her voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Her sister smiled slightly and nodded her head. “Thank you.”

Feeling the moment was over, Arya stepped back and over to the table and poured a glass of wine for Sansa. When she passed it off, the grateful smile she’d received warmed her and made her feel like she’d don’t something right for Sansa. It didn’t happen often, so Arya felt like she deserved to bask in it for as long as necessary.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Arya asked as casually as possible.

Her sister stiffened slightly as he eyes darted over the rim of the cup to meet Arya’s. She nodded once before she took a healthy sip of wine.

“Is there something between you and Sandor?”

Sansa choked on her drink and coughed loudly as she set the goblet down. Question answered, Arya tried not to grin too widely as she handed her sister a laced kerchief she found in desk drawer. Sansa dabbed daintily at her lips and made a great show of not looking directly at her as she tidied up. That was fine. Arya could be patient when she needed to be. It was one of the hardest lessons she’d ever had to learn, but she’d learned it well.

“I asked him the same things about you, you know,” Sansa informed her blithely.

Arya couldn’t help the sharp bark of laughter that came out of her mouth. The idea was preposterous. And there were no indicators that she and Sandor even liked each other, let along felt anything more deeply. There was a mutual respect there, and she supposed she found him to be a decent enough person, but there would never be anything else. She was certain he felt the same. It was all beside the point.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Arya pointed out with a quirk of her brow.

“Honestly, how can anyone expect me to look kindly on any man after what Ramsay did is beyond my comprehension,” Sansa muttered as she lifted the wine to her lips again.

Arya cocked her head to the side, a small smile forming. “That’s not an answer, either.”

Sansa huffed a great sigh and set her goblet down with more force than necessary as she turned to glower at her. She smiled back beatifically and rolled up on the balls of her feet a few times in an effort to contain her glee. She had rattled Sansa, but not in the unpleasant way as before. No, Sansa was embarrassed, but it was the type of typical sisterly annoyance.

“If it makes any difference to you all,” Arya provided with a grin, “I wholeheartedly approve.”

That seemed to bring her up short. Sansa’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“You do?” she asked dubiously.

Arya shrugged. “Sure.”

She had purposefully not offered more of an explanation. It worked. Sansa chewed her lower lip for a few moments before she turned to look out into the frigid darkness beyond the frosted panes of glass.

“What do you think makes him a good choice?”

“You’re asking my opinion? Really?” While Arya enjoyed toying with her big sister, there was a vulnerability in her questions that took a bit of the joy out of it. For the first time since Baelish, Arya actually wanted to help the best she could.

Sansa’s eyes flickered to hers for a brief moment before she nodded. It took Arya a moment to collect her thoughts to something less antagonistic and more useful. It didn’t take half as long as she’d thought. Maybe she was losing her touch?

“He’s loyal,” she said with certainty. “And he’s honest. You can believe him when he tells you something.”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, he is both of those things.”

Arya regarded her sister carefully. “He is very protective of the things he values.”

Sansa gave a slight smile and looked openly at her. “Like you?”

Her answer was quick. “He didn’t care about me. He just wanted to ransom me to Aunt Lysa after we saw what happened at the Red Wedding.”

Her sister’s expression made her feel stupid. Like she had overlooked something important.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she snapped peevishly.

“Do you really think he didn’t care for you then? He tried to take you to your family, at great risk to himself since he was one of the most recognizable men in the Seven Kingdoms. He could have easily given you to Cersei, or Tywin, or even Roose Bolton. He didn’t. He tried to keep you safe and see you returned to your family. He may have been awful – and I’m sure he was – but he did what he did because he cared about you in his own way. He still does. He was ready to give up during the Battle for Winterfell, but when he saw you in danger, he threw himself in harms way to help you. He cares about you. Truly.”

Arya felt an uncomfortable flush build up in her cheeks. Deep down, she knew it was true. But she didn’t like to think about it. She cared for him, too. How could she not? And Sansa was right. He’d done all those things. Most of them were done as unpleasantly as possible, but he still did them. And he was different since his time with the holy man. Not softer, but quieter somehow. The rage in him had died out somewhat. He was more patient. Had more moments of humour. Which was not the fucking point of their conversation. At least, not when it came to her.

“I thought we were talking about why he was good for you, not me,” she pointed out blandly.

Sansa’s lips quirked, but at least she’d stopped chirping. Which was a timely reminder.

“He still calls you Little Bird,” Arya observed. Sansa looked away shyly.

“He does,” she acquiesced. When the little smile appeared on Sansa’s face, Arya couldn’t help but tease her.

“You like it,” she said, almost surprised. “You like **_him_**.”

“I like a great many people,” Sansa answered back with a look of warning. Arya paid it no mind. Instead, she giggled like a child.

“Oh, Maker, you fancy him!” she nearly exclaimed.

“Arya.” Her voice held the warning, too. Arya didn’t heed it. Sometimes things needed to be done for someone’s own good, and Sansa was far too damaged to get her happiness on her own.

“Practical question,” she continued, a bit too gleeful for Sansa’s comfort. “If you married him, would he be King? Or consort to the Queen?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Ayra cackled anyway. “Oh, oh! Could you imagine if people had to call him your Grace? His head would fucking explode.”

Arya howled with laughter as the images burst through her mind, and try as she might, Sansa couldn’t hold back her light laughter. After a moment, both women were giggling and snickering at the idea. When Arya caught her breath, she looked her sister over carefully.

“You know, it’s actually not a bad thought,” she continued. “You know he doesn’t want to rule. He would hate any title you gave him, but as a lord, he’s now eligible to marry you. Not that it would have stopped you before, if you’d made up your mind to ever marry again.”

Sansa didn’t look angry anymore. She looked sad. And a little lost. Her eyes drifted to the window again.

“He wouldn’t want me,” she said with certainty.

Arya’s heart clenched a little. “I don’t think that’s true. He’d be the last person in the world who would care if someone had scars.”

Sansa gave a watery smile, but still didn’t look at her.

“That would be the least of his problems with a wife like me.”

“What makes you say that?”

When Sansa turned to her, her Tully eyes were so haunted that it made Arya ache.

“I can’t ever be a – a – real wife,” she stammered. “And the crown needs heirs.”

“Sansa, there are plenty ways for that to happen,” Arya tried to assure her.

But Sansa wouldn’t hear her. She shook her head over and over and kept her eyes studiously trained on the window.

“I don’t think marrying is something I can do. I can’t be a wife in the ways that matter and the Northern lords are getting restless for me to announce my succession. I think it’s just going to have to be you. You can provide heirs one day. They can continue the Stark line.”

She sounded so sure that Arya felt panic flare in her gut.

“I can’t be a lady,” she said firmly. “That’s not me. It’s not what I want or who I am. But it is who you are.”

Sansa didn’t appear to have heard her.

“You’ll find a lord who doesn’t mind. Many northerners respect you for your role in killing the Night King. It’s more than I ever did. They’d follow you. They’d follow your children. It’s the only way.”

The panic got worse. Arya tried to swallow it down as she focused on getting through to her sister.

“Nothing has to be decided now,” she tried to reason. “We’ve got time.”

“The lords,” Sansa argued, but she cut her off tersely.

“Can bloody well wait. You rule the North, not them. We have time.”

Sansa didn’t look nearly convinced, but at least she’d stopped shaking her head. Arya felt her breaths come a bit easier. She placed her hand at her sister’s elbow.

“Let’s get you to bed, your Grace,” she said as gently as she could manage. “You’ve had one hell of a day.”

Sansa flashed her a weak smile and came with her easily. They walked the halls in silence, but Arya’s mind worked overtime. She could not be the future hope for the North. She’d have to figure out a way to keep Sansa on the throne, get the lords the heirs they wanted to feel secure, and find a way to actually give her sister the happiness she’d been so cruelly denied.

Her head hurt already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Arya! Doesn't want her royal responsibilities. Boo hoo, right?   
> I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for all those who take the time to leave me some love. Your comments make me grin like a loon :-D


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the (slight) delay. Was away for a much needed break and didn't have internet access. It was bliss!  
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments xx Love to hear from you all.

Chapter 8

SANDOR

He’d been training in the yard all morning since the Little Bird had needed a day out of the public eye. Manderley had been informed of the absolute cock up that had occurred the night before, and ravens had been sent to the other lords once the sun came up. Winterfell had already sent soldiers to Deepwood Mott to protect the Glovers. Gendry had left at dawn for the Wall with a message from the Little Bird. He had no doubt the bastard no-longer-king would send some kind of support to his only remaining kin. He had the Stark sense of loyalty, even without the name. Wolkan had reluctantly started sharing intelligence with him since he was interim Hand of the Queen.

Which was how he’d come to knock several knights on their noble arses all morning. Too much courtly intrigue annoyed him to the point of violence, though he’d tried to give some kind of feedback before he’d stormed off to knock some heads together. The Maester had agreed that calling a few banners in – the most trusted and loyal to the Starks – wasn’t a half bad idea. He’d think about who those were and consult the Queen once she was ready to receive company. As Hand, his opinion should have been enough, but of course it wasn’t. Buggering old fool.

After hours of beating younger, fitter men into the snow, Sandor relaxed his tired muscles in the baths. He started to think he was getting as pampered as the newly lorded Baratheon. But at his age, his body needed more care than before. Never mind that he’d been brought back from near death not once, but twice. He wasn’t the same man as before and the one he’d become was decidedly less volatile. The fire that had driven him had been snuffed out with Gregor’s miserable life.

He’d barely made it out of the bathhouse when a small hand with an unusually strong grip grabbed him by the bicep and yanked him towards the Godswood.

“We need to talk,” Arya spat tersely.

Sandor scowled at the she wolfs’ back, but allowed her to drag him across the threshold of the forest and through the trees. He didn’t bother asking any questions; she’d start in on him once she was ready. Mentally he went through his actions for the past week to ensure he wasn’t about to be raked over the coals for some form of courtly stupidity. He had to admit, his odds weren’t good.

She came to a stop by the heart tree and whirled on him, her face set in a deep frown.

“I cannot become Queen of the bloody North!” she informed him emphatically.

He stared dumbly at her for a moment before he replied, “Good thing you’re not, then.”

“Not if Sansa has her way,” she shot back, clearly annoyed with his inability to read her damned mind.

“You’re going to need to tell me what in the hells you’re talking about.”

Arya sighed heavily and plopped down gracelessly on a fallen log. She looked absolutely miserable. His disliked the way it made him feel; unsettled and like he had to so something to rectify it.

“Sansa is too afraid to get married again,” she grumbled and then looked at him expectantly. Did she think that’s all it took? One sentence and he could somehow understand where this bucket of crazy had started to overflow? It also didn’t match with the facts the Little Bird had given him.

“That wasn’t my understanding.”

Arya eyed him shrewdly. “She propose to you or something?”

Sandor barked out a harsh laugh and shook his head. Daft little wolf. “Day drinking isn’t a good thing for people your age.”

She rolled her eyes, but he wasn’t sure why. “Then explain to me what you meant. As far as I know, she has turned down all offers of marriage.”

He nodded. “She has.”

Arya glared at him. “You know something I don’t.”

“Looks that way.” He was enjoying how much it annoyed her.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck off.”

She groaned. “Sandor, come on. I can’t help her if I don’t have all the information.”

“You ever think there’s a reason she didn’t tell you herself?” he queried.

Her frown grew to a full scowl. He tried not grin.

“She broke down last night after I kicked you all out,” she informed him bluntly. “I had to talk her down from completely losing her mind. I held her while she cried. She’s terrified. I can’t seem to reason with her while she’s like this. You have to help me. She can’t go on like this.”

His heart stopped. The images of her sobbing, stripped, and beaten in King’s Landing forced their way into his mind. He shook his head to rid himself of them, but they were replaced with worse. Stories about what she’d endured at the Bastard’s hands. He felt ill.

“She was going to marry the Greyjoy your family fostered,” he spat out. He still didn’t understand why it seemed like an option for her, no matter what little good he’d done for her or her kin. He’d done too much bad before all that.

Arya froze, her eyes wide. “What?”

He hummed and nodded once. Seemed she didn’t like the idea either.

Arya jumped up and started to pace rapidly back and forth in front of him, her face pinched in concentration. She muttered rapidly under her breath as she darted to and fro. He let it go on a few minutes before he placed a hand on her shoulder and halted her movements.

“Stop fucking twitching and speak up,” he grumbled. “Can’t help if I can’t hear you.”

Arya nodded, but still looked overly perturbed. “It makes sense now, why she’s so shaken.”

How the fuck did she figure that?

“I’m quickly losing interest in this shit.”

Arya snorted loudly. “No, you’re not. Because we both know there is nothing you wouldn’t do for my sister.” 

Affronted, he turned on his heel and made to walk away.

“You know why she wanted to marry Theon, don’t you?”

He growled quietly and stopped his stomping, but didn’t turn back to her. When she muttered something about him being like an overgrown child he nearly threw at rock at her head. Nearly.

“Theon could give her everything she needed without ever asking the one thing from her that she thinks herself incapable of.”

He considered her words. If he had drawn the correct conclusion, it only left him with more questions. He grumbled under his breath before he turned back to her, arms crossed tightly to signal his short attention span and even shorter temper with that particular topic.

“I can see I’ll have to spell this out for you,” she jabbed. “I didn’t think you were that thick.”

“You don’t have to spell shit,” he snapped. She smirked.

“I’d be worried if I did. Maybe you’re not the right suiter for my sister after all if you’re dumber than a bag of dirt.”

He froze. What in the seven buggering hells had she just said?

“You need to stop the flow of stupid coming out of your hole,” he informed her tightly. Her smirk became more pronounced.

“Intrigued, are you?”

His arms dropped; fists clenched as he advanced two steps towards her. She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t make me geld you, Sandor. I’d rather not hurt you.”

He bristled, but a small part of him was impressed with her. She’d learned well in her years since King’s Landing.

“She likes you, too, you know.”

He nearly choked on his tongue. Whatever expression he’d made the little she wolf found hilarious. She threw her head back and laughed far more loudly than he appreciated. She settled down somewhat once he’d started towards her again. He wondered how much trouble he’d get into for throttling a princess? It wasn’t like she was Queen.

“Okay, I’m done,” she said around a snicker. He must not have looked convinced, for she rearranged her face to a less mocking expression.

“Did I give you shit about fucking your green lord?” he shot back.

“No, you didn’t. But you gave him shit. A lot of it, from what he said.”

“That boy bitches about everything.”

She considered him for a moment before she grinned. “Yeah, he kind of does.”

Sandor snorted a laugh. He’d never understand women.

“I wasn’t lying, you know. She fancies you.”

He didn’t like the way his heart slammed around against his ribs. He swallowed and stared down at the annoying person that he’d never been able to shake since plucking her from the Brotherhood at that Gods forsaken Inn on the King’s Road.

“I thought you’d be happier.”

“With what?”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re doing that thing you do when you don’t want to tell me something and you won’t lie about it.”

He hated – absolutely fucking hated – that she’d come to know him so well. He glowered at her.

“You didn’t ask a fucking question.”

“Do you want to be King?”

“Have you fallen from your horse recently?” he snapped. “Suffered a blow to head?”

When she grinned again, he had to wonder if all that time with the Faceless Men had actually made her mad. He didn’t think he could handle someone so deadly also being out of their mind. Too dangerous.

“That’s a no then.”

“Don’t like titles or the responsibility that goes with them.” She bloody well knew that. Or at least she should.

“You swore to never make any vows,” she said carefully. “Was that just for knighthood?”

“Get to the point or I’m leaving, wolf bitch,” he threatened again, completely intent on making good if she didn’t.

“I want you to marry my sister.”

He shook his head. “You have lost your mind.”

“Probably,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s the worst fucking idea since your lordly father decided to ride South with King Robbert.”

Ayra’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t back down.

“You offered to save her once. She stupidly didn’t let you. I think she’d let you this time.”

“How is marriage to me salvation?” he barked incredulously. “I look like the husbandly kind to you?”

“You don’t want to rule,” she started to list on her gloved fingers, completely straight faced. “You’re respected enough among the Northern lords that most of them won’t complain – much. It fulfils their demand that she marry. And you can give her heirs, so I don’t ever have to be Queen.”

He tried to keep the heat from his voice, but his anger rose rapidly at her words. “Is this about her or you?”

“Both,” she admitted straight away. He’d give her that much – she was honest.

“One problem with your plan,” he pointed out. “She hasn’t agreed.”

“She will,” she replied with such conviction he had to ask himself just what the hell they’d talked about after he’d left them last night.

“Why would she?” he pried. It didn’t make sense with all the eligible lords around her, that she would want a scarred old dog like him.

“Did your brother knock out what little brains you had?” she asked rather angrily. “For all the reasons I just told you!”

“You said she was afraid to be a wife,” he pointed out.

Arya came to stand toe-to-toe with him. She was barely past his navel, but her glare seared the very air around them.

“She’s afraid that her next husband will hurt her like the last one,” she uttered lowly. “But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t force yourself on her.”

They weren’t questions; her words sounded more like threats. He nearly gripped her up at the implication she’d made.

“She told me what happened the night the Blackwater burned.”

He froze. Pain lanced through him as the memory brought with it shame like he’d never felt. That encounter had started so, so badly. With a blade at her neck and demand for a song. In her innocence, she’d actually started to sing. Her sweet voice had nearly broken him. That was when he’d all but vowed himself to her service if she’d have him. But he hadn’t known how to make his intentions plain, and she was terrified of him then. So, he’d set his cloak on her shoulders and just left her to the Lions. It was one of his greatest regrets. He should have thrown her over his shoulder and dragged her from the fucking Keep kicking and screaming if it came to that.

“Another reason why she wouldn’t want me,” he said flatly.

“Not according to her,” she countered. “She’s adamant you’d never hurt her.”

He shook his head. Bloody bird and her romantic notions. He thought those had been beaten out of her. She wasn’t wrong on that count, though.

“I wouldn’t.”

Arya seemed to settle ever so slightly at his words. He needed to get whatever fool notion she’d come up with out of her head, and fast.

“Still not going to marry her, though.”

Her sharp grey eyes snapped to his. “You got a better offer than the fucking Queen of the North?”

“Don’t want offers from anyone, let alone a bloody Queen.” It wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t need one. And he certainly didn’t need ‘heirs’.

The calmer he stated things, the angrier she seemed to get. It would have been amusing if he didn’t know that she was armed to the teeth with more than just that Braavosi blade of hers. She was deadly enough with that thing; he didn’t want to test her skills with anything else.

“But there’s no other way,” she insisted.

He shrugged. “I’m sure you can convince some frozen lord to have her. She’s easy enough on the eyes.”

“None that are good enough,” she grumbled, and then added more quietly, “None that I’d trust with her.”

He swallowed down his annoyance. He couldn’t be the only answer to this fucking problem.

“It’s good of you to look out for her,” he offered, “but I don’t need a wife that can’t be a wife.”

She looked confused. “Meaning?”

“If I wanted to take vows and stop fucking, I’d join the bloody Watch!”

She looked at him with such surprise he felt his temper rise. She might trust him, but she clearly didn’t see him as a man.

“Surprised that a woman would fuck someone so ugly?” he snarled. “Whores don’t care what you look like; coin is coin.”

“That’s not –“ she stopped and shook her head, a frown deeply etched on her face. When she looked back up at him, her expression was as close to contrite as he’d ever seen it.

“I wasn’t trying to imply anything,” she assured him. “I know what Sansa says about not being able to bed anyone, but I really think if she’s handled carefully, that would change.”

“Because that’s what I’m known for, my fucking patience and flowery words?” he said sardonically.

“Are you really going to stand her and tell me that you’d trust anyone else with her? That anyone else is good enough? That she’d be safe?”

“What in the seven hells makes you think I’m good enough?” How daft was she?

She didn’t miss a beat. “I know you, Sandor. You’re no risk to her. You’re loyal. You’re smarter than people give you credit for. Most of all, you care for her and she trusts you. She has no one else. And, if you used that lump three feet above your arse, you’d have figured out by now that Bran must have made you a lord for some other reason than out of the goodness of his heart.”

He glowered at her. “Are all you Starks so manipulative?”

“Jon’s not,” she answered simply. “Pretty sure he’s the only one though.”

Sandor cursed under his breath and clenched his fists at his sides. She’d neatly backed him into a corner and she damned well knew it. He wanted to tell her no, really tell her, just out of spite. But the Little Bird flashed through his mind. All Joff’s beatings and humiliation. Being forced to marry the fucking Imp. Then the Bastard and his special way of handling his wife. She’d been through enough. And he could keep her from going through anything else. He knew he’d treat her kindly enough – as kindly as he could. And he didn’t want her bloody crown or titles.

He groaned under his breath and turned back to the most irritating woman in the fucking world and saw the wolfish smile on her face. He wanted to punch her, but was sure her sister wouldn’t like that. Not a very good impression to make before proposing marriage.

“I don’t do poetry or songs,” he said flatly.

“Thank the Gods for small favours,” she said around a laugh.

“It’s up to you to talk her into this. She can come to me if she’s happy with the arrangement. I won’t make it difficult for her, but I won’t be falling to my knees and professing love and devotion, either,” he promised as he pointed a finger at her.

“Done,” she said with a casual shrug.

“Can I go now?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded sullen, so he wasn’t surprised when she smirked at him.

“Yep. I’ll keep you informed on my progress.”

“Can’t wait.” He rolled his eyes as he turned away. He trudged through the snow like the defeated shit for brains sap that he was.

“Oh, and Sandor?” She sounded too cheerful. He didn’t turn around.

“We both know you’ll be on your knees spouting flowery shit at some point. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Looks like he was going to punch her after all. He’d explain it to the Little Bird later. He was pretty sure she’d let it slide. Her sister annoyed everyone. He whirled around, intent on teaching her a sound lesson.

She was gone. Not even footsteps in the snow remained. Creepy woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Arya right? Will he end up on his knees???


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but hopefully worth it ;-)

Chapter 9

SANSA

It had been three days since the almost-attack in the Godswood. She’d allowed one day to herself; just enough time to pull herself together and channel her strength. After the way she’d fallen apart in front of Arya, she had to make sure she’d locked her feelings down tight. She couldn’t risk a repeat of that in front of anyone else. Being a young Queen was hard enough when it came to ruling men old enough to be her father. She would not put herself in a position to be seen as weak or incapable. She’d fought hard for the Northern crown and she meant to keep it – or at least keep it in her family.

However, every time she tried to resume her conversation with Arya, her sister changed the subject in some spectacular fashion. She’d known that Arya would take some convincing to accept the responsibility. She had expected it to be difficult. So far, she hadn’t been disappointed.

“Any word from the Wall, your Grace?” Ser Davos asked conversationally as they broke their fast by the fire in her solar. Wolkan had been by early that morning to tell her that while they’d sent ravens to all her bannermen, they had not yet heard from anyone else. It wasn’t unusual. With winter storms frequent, it could take several tries before ravens made it to and from their intended destinations.

“Not yet, but it’s still early days. It can take a while,” she told him with a reassuring smile.

“Hopefully Gendry didn’t run into bad weather on his way.” The older man sounded a little concerned.

“He’ll bitch about it either way,” Sandor said blandly. “Whiny boy lord.”

Sansa couldn’t help her smile when Arya slowly turned to glare daggers at him. Even Davos looked amused. Sandor smirked, completely unperturbed by her sister’s wrathful gaze.

“At least he’s man enough to step up and propose to someone,” she countered, her eyebrow cocked.

Sansa stopped breathing. What had she just said? The duel fireballs of information warred in her mind for dominance. Gendry had proposed to Arya? Had she accepted? And what was Arya implying about Sandor proposing to someone?

She felt dizzy and the room suddenly seemed too warm and the sounds came as though through water. All of her senses either went into overdrive, or failed her altogether. Her vision drifted in and out of focus. Darkness crept in around the edges. Her chest ached. Her hands trembled. She felt ill.

“Breathe, Little Bird,” a harsh voice whispered close to her ear.

Sansa sucked in a deep breath and blinked rapidly. The room slowly stopped spinning around her at a sickening speed. A few more breaths, slow and steady, helped the sensations return. Unable to make her hands stop shaking, Sansa clasped them tightly together in front of her. Her hearing was the last thing to be fully restored.

“ . . . stop being a cunt!”

“Stop being a coward!”

“Stop calling each other names like a couple of children,” Sansa chimed in tiredly as she opened her eyes and looked around the room. Davos looked concerned, but there was something else there as well. He glanced between her Shield and her Hand; suspicion written all over his usually jovial face.

Sansa turned to her sister and tried to keep her voice steady. “Do I need a new Shield?”

“Terminating me so soon, dear sister?” She crossed her arms and leaned against her desk. Their father’s desk.

Sansa tried not to sigh. “Gendry proposed?”

Arya’s eyes immediately studied the floor and her shoulder twitched upwards. “Last year, after the Dragon Queen made him a lord.”

You could have knocked Sansa over with a feather. How had she not heard about that? How had no one heard about it?

“Why did you turn him down?” Because, obviously she had. No one gets engaged then sails around the world looking for adventures. Not even her very strange little sister.

“He asked me to be lady of Storms End,” she deadpanned. Even Ser Davos knew she wasn’t meant for that roll by the way he hummed in quiet understanding. That at least answered that question. The hardest one was still to come. She turned to Sandor.

“Do I need to get another Hand?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

It stung more than she’d anticipated, much as she’d known this day would come. She tried not to let how much that bothered her show on her face. She nodded once and turned back to her desk.

“Very well,” she replied tightly. “We both knew this was temporary, and I appreciate your assistance thus far. How much time do I have to find a suitable replacement for you?”

“There’s no rush,” he said haltingly. From the corner of her eye she could see him glower heatedly at her sister. Arya merely shrugged.

“I am sure your intended would rather you not make her wait too long, and I have no wish to incur the wrath of any woman you’ve deigned worthy enough to say vows for,” she tried to say as airily as possible. The slight warble in her voice told her – and everyone else in the room – that she’d missed the mark.

For the first time ever in the time she’d known him, Sansa saw Sandor flush. He swallowed thickly and rubbed the back of his neck, still shooting daggers at her sister every few moments. A look of understanding passed over Davos’ face before he smothered a grin under false gruffness. He strode forward and started from the room, grabbing Arya by the arm as he went.

“Let’s go, Princess,” he said brusquely. “You dropped him in this heaping pile of shit, no need to stand around pointing and laughing while he finds a way out of it.”

“Oi! Unhand me,” Arya objected mildly. “Is this how you treat royalty where you’re from?”

“Damned right we do, when they act like spoiled children,” he shot back and proceeded to drag her from the room. In fairness, it was only because she’d let him, and everyone knew it.

When the door shut behind them, Sandor scrubbed his hand down his face and growled quietly under his breath. He looked everywhere but directly at her. She only glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Never before had there been such awkwardness between them. She misliked it intensely.

“Who is she?” she asked, hating the way her voice sounded so weak.

Sandor’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Your sister hasn’t spoken to you?”

Sansa felt a wave of nausea. She clenched her teeth and willed her morning meal to stay put, shaking her head. Was Arya meant to deliver some horrible news? Did he think it would soften the blow?

A string of colourful curses flew from his lips as he paced over to the fire and steadfastly kept his back to her. He stayed that way, shoulders tense, fists clenched as he stared at the flames. She allowed the silence to stretch as long as she could before she gathered what little courage remained and cleared her throat.

“It’s not Arya, is it?” she tried to joke.

Bad idea. From the way his whole body whipped around and he looked at her with such shock and disgust on his face, she shouldn’t have said anything at all. She put her hands up, fully intent on apologizing – not something she did very often – when he did something entirely unexpected. A look of pure determination on his face, he crossed the room and stopped only a hairs breath away from her. He was so close she could feel the heat that radiated off his freshly cleaned skin. His hair was still damp from washing up. He smelled like the lye soap infused with evergreen and juniper the maids made for the men of Winterfell.

He seemed to hesitate; a great war of emotions raged in his stormy eyes as he gazed down at her. His hand lifted and dropped several times, uncertainty on his scarred features, before he reached out and snatched up one of her hands and clasped it tightly in his. He swallowed noisily and sucked in a deep breath.

“Your bitch of a sister promised she’d talk to you,” he grumbled quietly. “Knows I’m shit with words. Probably just wanted to watch me suffer after all the hell I put her through.”

Thoroughly confused, but enjoying the feel of his calloused hand around hers, Sansa cocked her head slightly and raised her brows.

Another string of filthy words that would have sent Septa Mordane screaming from the room, and Sansa had to keep a smile from pulling her lips up. She was so lost. What was wrong with the man?

“Sandor –“

“I don’t want your crown,” he blurted out suddenly. He looked just as surprised by his statement as she was. She blinked up at him a few times before she nodded slowly.

“Well, that’s good to know, thank you.” Was he ill? Had he hurt himself? Head injuries did funny things to people . . .

“And I don’t – you won’t have to – I’m not –“ he stammered, getting angrier by the second. Her free hand flew up and she covered his lips with her fingertips.

“Stop,” she commanded around a very slight laugh. “Breathe. And then try again, because I cannot figure out what it is that you’re trying to tell me.”

“You need a husband,” he muttered against her fingers. His face flamed and scarred cheek twitched wildly.

She dropped her hand and nearly stepped back, but the shock had rooted her in place.

“I need –“ she started to repeat woodenly, when he cut her off.

“Those frozen whoresons who bow and scrape to you keep pressuring you to marry.”

Putting his description of her bannermen aside, Sansa tried to focus on exactly what it was he was saying. Or more accurately, proposing. **_Seven hells_**. She swallowed and nodded when words failed her. He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he offered haltingly.

Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide with the implications of his statement. Her heart hammered in her chest so hard she was worried about it breaking out of her ribs. She tried to steady her breaths, but it was harder than she’d anticipated.

“I know you wouldn’t,” she said breathlessly. She sounded like she was swooning. Perhaps she was. Only he could propose with so much profanity and have it set her heart all a flutter. Perhaps Arya wasn’t the strange one after all.

“I swore to you I’d kill anyone who hurt you, and I meant it.”

She nodded. She believed him. She’d believed him then, too, but it had scared her. It didn’t anymore.

“I will always be honest with you.” His words were very close to vows.

“And I with you,” she returned and squeezed his hand. He seemed to accept that with a very slight nod of his head. But she had to know. Had to. Even if it meant the end of this moment. The end of everything he offered to her.

“Will you stay true to me?” she whispered, frightened of his answer. She had no wish to be married to someone who frequented whorehouses, no matter how broken she’d become.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, but he nodded all the same. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It was something she wasn’t willing to negotiate on. That and one other thing.

“I have one more request,” she informed him as she leaned into him a little more. Her chest brushed against his and she felt how his heart raced through his tunic. It wasn’t just her, then. When he nodded for her to say her piece, she wound her fingers through his and stroked her thumb along the top of his hand.

“Never use my proper name.” Her name haunted her. In her dreams, waking and sleeping, it was whispered so cruelly while she screamed. While she bled. While she cried and begged and pleaded for it all to stop.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You want me to call my wife, ‘your Grace’?”

Her smile came easily. “No. I want you to call me the name only you have ever called me.”

He swallowed thickly and his chin lowered slightly. His breath fanned across her cheeks.

“As you say, Little Bird.”

She allowed her eyelids to flutter slightly. She wasn’t a little bird anymore, but there was something about the name he’d given her that held a special place in her heart. In truth, she loved to hear him call her that.

She drew on every bit of courage she had, every bit of confidence that she’d developed over the past year as Queen. Slowly, she rose up on the tips of her toes, eyes never leaving his. She gripped his hand tighter as her lips brushed his.

She’d only ever kissed men she did not love. Joffrey did not count. She was too young to know what love was. With Tyrion, their sole kiss was on their wedding day, and it was as chaste as a kiss could be. But Baelish would often kiss her the way a man kissed a woman. She’d tolerated it passively, but it had made her insides squirm uncomfortably. And Ramsay. She violently threw thoughts of her late husband from her mind as she tried to actually enjoy the first kiss she’d shared with a man of her choosing. A man she wanted to kiss.

He was far gentler than she would have thought. He did not press his advantage or try to fill her mouth with his tongue. The kiss was warm and smooth, but hesitant. She pressed her mouth his more insistently, letting her lips linger longer each time before his free hand finally wound around her waist. His fingers twisted gently in the ends of her hair. It caused her to gasp slightly as gooseflesh broke out across her skin.

He stepped back immediately, but kept his hand in hers, and the other at her waist to steady her. She blinked a few times at him, unsure why he had pulled away. His gaze burned into hers as he tried to slow his breaths. She had the same issue with her own that came too fast; too hard. She’d enjoyed that more than she’d thought she ever would. He seemed to have that affect on her.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

She smiled fully up at him and stroked his hand again with her thumb.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Look who got engaged! Thoughts?


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I know I was supposed to update a few days ago, but life has been hectic. Between trying to sell my house, buy a new one, work from home, and the rest of LIFE, I haven't had much spare time (dammit). But, here it is. Hopefully, back on schedule this weekend.   
> Thanks for those that take the time to read my little tale and to those that leave me some love xx

Chapter 10

SANSA

Sansa watched as Wolkan chewed over the information she’d just given him. She’d spent the whole day after her betrothal thinking about how to start informing people of her choice, and just how they were going to react. Arya and Davos knew immediately when she saw them in the Great Hall later that day. Arya grinned like the cat who got the cream, and Davos had smiled kindly and wished them both many years of happiness together – quietly, where no one else could hear him. He seemed to know that she wasn’t ready to spread the news far and wide. She’d started to see why Jon had valued him so much. He was much smarter than she’d given him credit for, and he could read a room better than anyone she’d ever met, including Baelish.

She’d requested a few moments alone with the Maester from both her easily irritated intended and her knife happy sister. They’d only agreed if she allowed them to remain right outside the door. She’d rolled her eyes, but acquiesced. It was the easiest way to appease them. She could lay down the law with them at a later time on how she was the Queen and didn’t need their consent to speak with one of her advisors without them.

“You’ll need a new Hand sooner rather than later, your Grace,” he finally offered plainly. When her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, he turned and started looking at their ledgers. “We’ll also need to find ways to feed and house all the lords and ladies, and their retinues, for at least a fortnight.”

She saw immediately where he was going. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

Wolkan finally showed some surprise. “We must have a wedding, your Grace. You are their Queen. And if they are to accept him as your consort, they must be here to bear witness to your union.”

Sansa frowned a little. He had a point.

“It seems bad taste to have a royal wedding while our Northern houses are under attack from some unknown threat.”

He nodded to concede her point, but his face twisted up thoughtfully. “We could, perhaps, invite them all, but stress that we understand that in these difficult times, there is no required attendance, and that absence will not be seen as an insult, rather a prudent decision made to look after their own house and lands.”

Sansa nodded in approval. “I think the wording needs work, but that sounds very reasonable. And it will certainly reduce the numbers we need to host. Perhaps I can use this opportunity to also find a suitable Hand.”

“An excellent idea, my Queen,” he agreed with far more happiness than she approved of. She kept from rolling her eyes, but only just.

“Tell me plainly, Maester,” she asked directly. “Do you foresee any issues with my choice of consort?”

Wolkan looked directly in her eye for a moment before he tucked his hands into the front of his robes. He looked pensive.

“He is a lord, so there should be no objections on that front,” he allowed. “But he is not from the North. There will be some who take issue with a Southron consort, particularly those her Grace has already declined.”

Yes, men could be a particularly prickly lot, especially when their pride was wounded.

“He went with Jon north of the Wall to get a wight,” she started. “He fought beside our men in the Battle for Winterfell. He saved my sister more times than either of them can count. He tried to save me.”

“He used to serve the Lannister’s,” he countered, but she got the feeling he wasn’t trying to argue. More like he was using all the excuses offended Northerners might offer up in an effort to stop the union from taking place.

“He left their service when Joffrey was King,” she reminded him. After that he had done all the things she’d already mentioned.

Wolkan paced across the solar deep in concentration. It was a few moments before he stopped and turned to her. He looked a bit hesitant, but calm.

“Your Grace,” he said in a soft voice. She knew that voice. It was the same tone everyone used whenever they wanted to mention the horrors of her past. She braced herself; allowed the anger that always accompanied those memories to fill her up. It was better, and far more useful, than the shame, fear, and disgust that wanted priority. She stood as if carved from ice.

“There may not be a way to placate the lords with your choice,” he continued gently. “However, an heir for your royal house would be a sure way to win over even the staunchest objector. Your bannermen want you to secure your throne, and the only way to do that is to produce an heir.”

Sansa swallowed. It was the one thing she’d never been able to escape. “Arya is my heir.”

“They do not want the Princess to ever be Queen,” he rushed to add, “and what’s more, she does not want it, either. And there is nothing worse than a reluctant Monarch. Remember King Robbert?”

She grimaced. He wasn’t wrong there. Robbert had been a terrible King, completely disinterested in ruling.

“I doubt Arya would spend her days drunk and in pillow houses,” she muttered wryly, “But I see your point. And you are not wrong; she has told me herself she doesn’t want to rule.”

“She’s told anyone with ears that she will not rule,” he agreed with a rueful smile. Sansa thawed out a bit and smiled back. Her sister always had been more trouble than the average person.

“I cannot promise an heir will happen right away.” The words were like ash in her mouth and she nearly choked on them. There was only one way to get a trueborn heir. She shuddered delicately.

Wolkan looked at her with such understanding that she nearly vomited all over the floor. She clenched her teeth and looked away from his kind expression. It made her skin crawl with memories she’d longed to shed.

“If you might permit me, your Grace,” Wolkan said hesitantly. “I can try to have a word with your intended. Perhaps if he was told there are ways to –“

Sansa’s laugh rang out through the room. She laughed more loudly than she’d intended, but she couldn’t stop herself. Once she regained some control, she turned to Wolkan, who looked quite scandalized by her reaction.

“Forgive me, Maester,” she said around a giggle. “But I have grown quite fond of you over the past year and would not ever subject you to the wrath my betrothed would visit upon you for daring to try to help in that manner.”

Relief was evident on his features as he smiled back. “Of course, my Queen. I appreciate your concern after my wellbeing.”

He hesitated again, but then ploughed forward. “But if I may be so bold as to suggest that another has a talk with him. Perhaps one he would be far less likely to maim.”

“I’m not sure such a person exists,” she informed him bluntly.

“Would you trust my judgement enough to attempt to aide you both in such a delicate matter?”

Sansa considered him for a moment before she nodded. “I would.”

He smiled kindly and bowed. “Thank you, your Grace. I will see to it immediately.”

Sansa gave a tremulous smile. She had a very bad feeling it was not going to go well, whatever the Maester had in mind. She only hoped Sandor would not make too big an issue – or a mess – out of whatever unfortunate person approached him around such a topic.

“What of our guest in the cells?” She changed topics swiftly. No more talk of bedding the broken Queen.

Wolkan’s expression darkened. “He still won’t talk, despite many persuasive methods.”

“Has Arya tried?” She held back a shudder at the thought of what her sister might be capable of, but had to admit that it had its advantages.

Wolkan had the same troubled expression that many wore when discussing Arya’s talents.

“No, your Grace,” he admitted. “Would you like me to discuss this with the Princess?”

“Yes. As distasteful as we might find it, my sister might be particularly skilled in such a manner than no one else in the North possesses. Let her see to him. Mayhaps she will have more luck that our goaler.” Her decisive tone brokered no arguments, and the Maester bowed and excused himself.

When Sansa turned around, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Arya had seemingly materialized out of thin air, and crunched noisily on an apple, her feet propped up on Sansa’s desk.

“I really hate it when you do that,” Sansa hissed, her hand over her thundering heart.

Arya shrugged shoulder and chomped down another overly large bite.

“I know,” she said around a full mouth. “It’s why I do it.”

Sansa glared at her, but Arya was completely unphased. She finished her snack and washed it down with a cup of ale that she could have pulled from her pocket for all Sansa knew.

“When’s the wedding?”

Sansa tried to keep her expression clear and unbothered. “Probably within the next month.”

Arya nodded. “Good.”

Puzzled, she walked over and leaned against the side of the desk. “I still don’t see what you get out of this.”

Arya rolled her Stark eyes. “You spent too much time with Littlefinger.”

Sansa didn’t argue; she wasn’t wrong. It still didn’t answer her question.

“I just don’t see why it matters to you who I marry.”

“We don’t see things the same way,” Arya said plainly. There was no malice, no criticism in her tone. “We are about as different as two people can get, despite being sisters. And I don’t always understand you. But that doesn’t mean I want you to be hurt, or unhappy. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do whatever I could to help you. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I vowed to keep you safe.”

Sansa felt her breath catch. She smiled warmly at her sister. “If father could see us now.”

Arya grinned back. “He’d think someone spiked his ale.”

Sansa giggled, then looked carefully at her sister. “You know, I have the feeling Gendry wouldn’t require you to be an actual lady.”

Her expression darkened immediately and Sansa wondered if she’d made a misstep. But Arya didn’t look angry. She looked a little sad.

“He wouldn’t,” she admitted. “I know he loves me for me. I know he’d let me be as free as he could. I know he’d be a good husband and lord and father.”

She turned to look Sansa right in the eye, and gave a wilted little half-smile.

“It’s not fair to him, because it wouldn’t be enough for me. To be tied to one place for so long. I would eventually be expected to help him run his castle. Bear his children. Settle down. I might not have to wear gowns and curtsey and sew, but I would still have to be the lady of a great house, and we both know that’s not me. And after a while, he would resent me for what I’m not, and I would resent him for wanting me to try to be.”

As much as she hated to admit it, her sister was right. Arya would be miserable, and so would he when he saw her unhappiness as his failure to be good enough for her. No, Arya could not settle down with Gendry, no matter how much they cared for one another.

“Are you still going to stick around here? Or have you done your duty by finding me a big, strong husband to look out for me?” Sansa eyed her sardonically.

“You need looking after,” Arya replied drily. “Look at the messes you get yourself in without me. No, I’ll be staying a while. Unless you’ve had enough of me, your Grace?”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“So, should I head down to the cells now?”

Somewhat startled by the abrupt shift, Sansa stood and paced over to the fire.

“I don’t want to know how you accomplish it, but get him to tell you who sent him after me.”

“Not sure it’ll be worse than feeding him to his own hounds.”

She wanted to feel disgusted with herself for being so brutal, but she didn’t. She felt empowered. She looked over her shoulder at her sister.

“Hopefully not,” she agreed. “Dead men can’t tell you anything.”

Arya grinned. “How very unladylike, your Grace.”

“We all have our dark sides,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Can I take Sandor with me?”

Somewhat surprised by the request, she turned around.

“He doesn’t need my permission for such things,” she informed her plainly. “And as my shield, neither do you. Do what you think is best. I trust your judgement.”

Arya’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ll be damned. You really do.”

She watched her sister, her shield, practically prance from the room. It should disturb her just how much Arya would enjoy torturing information out of someone, but somehow, she couldn’t muster the feeling. Everything had its purpose.

And now that she was engaged to be married as Queen of the North, so did she. Sansa breathed deeply and tried not to let her mind wander, but the memories of a different time in Winterfell washed over her and swept her away in their vividness.

_“ . . . hello, wife . . .”_

_“ . . . nothing you can do to me to make me fear my home . . .”_

_“ . . . REEK! My name is Reek!”_

_“Your name is Theon Greyjoy . . .”_

_“Hello, **Sansa** . . .” _

Sudden pressure on her shoulder tore a scream from her throat and caused her to all but levitate off the floor. Hands grasped her waist tightly and yanked her backwards despite the way she flailed and thrashed about. If only she was any good with a blade.

“Your Grace!” a high voice shouted. “Your gown, your Grace!”

Sansa’s eyes flew open – when had she closed them? – as she looked wildly around the room. Her handmaiden, Beccah, stood before her, pale and frightened. She couldn’t imagine how she looked to the poor girl. The maid was stronger than she looked and held Sansa in a grip that kept her steady despite the shakes that wracked her frame. When she looked down, she saw that the hem of her gown was charred and blackened. Beccah must have arrived just in time. If she’d been any later, Sansa’s dress could have caught fire. She had a habit of standing too close to the hearth.

“Thank you, Beccah,” she said genuinely as she blinked her vision clear. She realized she must have been crying, for her eyes were damp and cheeks felt sticky.

“Oh, your Grace,” the young lady looked immeasurably sad. She reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair back into Sansa’s braid. The girl was always so kind to her. Always tried to put her at ease and make her smile. She paid very close attention to Sansa’s preferences and made sure she always had exactly what she wanted and needed. There were other reasons she felt close to Beccah, but they never spoke of those. As far as Sansa was concerned, she was irreplaceable, so she always took care to treat her with respect and kindness. It wasn’t difficult, even when she was embarrassed – as she was in that moment.

“Shall I ask the Maester for a sleeping tincture?” she offered empathetically. Sansa shook her head.

“No, I do not think that is necessary,” she responded dully. “They make the nightmares worse.”

Beccah lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”

Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat. Beccah had picked up on her nightmares immediately after entering her service. She had taken to sleeping on the chaise in Sansa’s chambers so that she was able to rouse her before her screams woke half the castle. Sometimes, she would run her fingers through Sansa’s hair, much as her mother had done when she was a little girl, in an effort to soothe her when the dreams were particularly bad. She was also the only one Sansa ever allowed to help bathe and dress her. She’d seen all of her scars. Physical or otherwise. Sansa trusted more than anyone else in her employ.

“I will let you know after supper,” she murmured in reply. Before she could say anything else Sandor burst into the room, soldiers hot on his heels, all with swords drawn.

Beccah rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and scoffed out loud.

“A bit late, m’lords,” she said blithely. “I’ve already put out her flaming gown.”

Sandor looked her up and down as if to see with his own eyes that she was unharmed. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but was certain it fell flat.

“What happened?” he demanded roughly. Before Sansa could respond, Beccah piped up.

“Her Grace is exhausted, that’s what happened,” she snapped peevishly, hands firmly placed on her hips. “Between attacks on her person, sudden marriage proposals, and nameless scum going after her people, she barely gets a moments peace! On top of all that, there’s still that missing Lord –“

“Beccah,” Sansa called to her quietly. If she let her build up steam, they’d be there all evening. Once you’d irritated the maid, she was all over you like white on snow.

The young woman sucked in a calming breath and made a great show of relaxing her posture and smoothing her dress, before she gave a slight nod of deference.

“Begging your pardon, your Grace. I will work on my manners when addressing your,” she eyed Sandor with open suspicion, “intended. Forgive my imprudence, m’lord.”

She gave a small courtesy and turned back to Sansa, who had failed to completely smother her smile. “Let’s get you into something a little less singed, shall we?”

A small giggle escaped her as she nodded in agreement. She turned to the men in the room.

“Excuse us, gentlemen,” she said with an easy smile when they all bowed – even Sandor. She stopped to look directly at him on her way out.

“Please go see Arya. She might need your assistance in questioning our guest in the cells.”

Sandor snorted loudly. “More like he’ll need my assistance keeping his head if he says the wrong thing to your sworn shield.” 

Murmurs of agreement from the soldiers rose up around them, so Sansa said nothing else, merely nodded. She looped her arm through Beccah’s and allowed herself to led into her bedchamber as the men filed out of her solar.

Her handmaid went about briskly unlacing her gown and whipping it off of her body with as little fanfare as possible. She looked down at the bottom and bit her lip, before she hummed to herself.

“It’s not completely ruined,” she said almost to herself. “We could cut off the bottom and trim it with fur. Embroider the sleeves. Add fur to the collar. It was a rather plain dress, if you don’t mind my saying so. We could make it something really special.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said a little absently. She was still a little shaken by her memories. Being in her room – her parents’ former rooms – helped to settle her a little.

Beccah gave her a magnificent side eye before nonchalantly folding the gown up. She placed it neatly on a table top before she sauntered over to the wardrobe to get another dress. Her voice was practiced, airy, when she started talking again.

“That lordly man of yours isn’t quite a I’ve heard him described.”

That immediately grabbed Sansa’s attention, which she knew had been the maid’s goal all along.

“I can only imagine what people say.” Most of it wouldn’t be flattering in the least.

Beccah considered the dresses in the robe with a frown. “They weren’t unkind.”

That surprised her. When Beccah held the dress up to her – a deep blue velvet gown she didn’t wear very often because of the impracticality of the long, drooping sleeves – there was a glint of mischief in her hazel eyes.

“He’s comelier than I had imagined.”

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. “There are far more important traits than a handsome face.”

Sympathy flickered in Beccah’s eyes, but she quickly replaced it with a smile. “He looks of the North. Should make those lords and ladies concerned with such things happy.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sansa’s mouth. “He does.”

“He seems to really care for you,” the other woman hedged carefully.

Sansa didn’t say anything, but nodded. A blind man could see that. It was no secret. Beccah’s hands stilled at the ties on Sansa’s sleeves. She hesitated before she spoke.

“He’s known for being rather fierce,” she provided slowly. When she met Sansa’s eyes, her gaze was loaded with worry.

Sansa swallowed and pulled up some false vibrato. “I am certain he will treat me kindly and gently. He’s never given me reason to believe that he wouldn’t.”

It was all the truth, but she was no fool. Men were not known for their control when their blood was up; even men who cared for their women. And Sandor was a large man. She had no doubt that applied to all of his . . . appendages. It was not going to be a pleasant experience if she was the least bit tense, and might not even if she was calm. She’d just have to get through it. She’d been through worse.

Beccah smiled at her and finished fastening her gown with a small smile. “Of course, your Grace.”

Sansa stepped away and glanced over herself in her looking glass. She actually looked quite lovely. She didn’t usually dress up unless she hosted the lords of the North or foreign visitors, but she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to do so on occasion.

“Begging your pardon, your Grace, but may have permission to take my leave? I have some things that need overseeing.”

The other woman already stood by the door to her chambers. Sansa nodded absently to her while she considered her reflection. A quick curtsey and Sansa was alone with only a crackling fire and her wayward thoughts to keep her company. But unlike the last time, she wasn’t haunted by the past. Instead, she was very focused on what her future might come to be and dependent her happiness had become on someone who was possibly the only other person in Westeros who carried more scars than she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, poor Sansa! Good thing she's got decent people around her, right? ;-)


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, back on schedule! Thanks to all those who drop me a line and leave a comment. And of course, to everyone who's reading xx

Chapter 11

SANDOR

He moved as quietly as he could down the steps, careful not to knock his head on the low beams. The cells were dark and dank with only small uncovered windows. Snow blew into the cramped, wreaking spaces. Before he made it to the end of the hall, a scrawny lad covered in dirty garb stumbled into his side, his hands shackled.

“Put me in the cell across from his,” his whiny voice demanded.

Sandor scowled at the boy and gripped him up by the scruff of the neck.

“How in the seven hells did you get in here without an escort?” he snarled.

Slate grey eyes met his defiantly. “It’s my castle you dumb shit.”

Sandor nearly threw his head back and laughed out loud, but something about the way the little fucker scowled at him, something about his eyes seemed too familiar. When it dawned on him just what he was looking at, he dropped him back to the ground and stepped away swiftly. He’d heard the stories, of course. How the she wolf could wear the faces of those she’d killed. How she’d trained with those crazy cunts, the Faceless Men, over in Braavos. Until that moment, he’d never seen it for himself just how frightening she actually could be. Fucking magic scared the wits out of him.

The boy scoffed and offered his bound hands back up to him.

“Took you long enough, idiot,” he bit out. “Now, be a good dog and throw me in that cell. Make sure he sees you do it. Won’t help if he is suspicious of me from the start.”

“Bat shit crazy woman,” he muttered under his breath, but gripped the top of the lad’s arm and dragged him roughly across the floor before he unceremoniously flung him into an open cell across from the soon-to-be dead man who’d tried to attack the Little Bird.

“Enjoy the hospitality of Winterfell,” he rasped. “If you don’t die from the cold, we’ll just chop of your head.”

“You’ll live to regret this, ya dumb cunt,” the Arya-boy spat at him. “There’s more of us. Many more. You’re fucking Queen will die screaming while you watch, you stupid whoreson.”

Sandor’s blood boiled at the threats and he had to repeatedly tell himself that it was only Arya trying to make a point. She was trying to make the other kid see her as someone he could trust; tell his secrets to. It didn’t make him want to slap the shit our of her. . .him any less. Maybe just rattle her teeth a little. His teeth. Fuck, his head hurt.

Instead, he played along. “We’ll get the rest of you cunts as well, if they’re half as stupid as you two. Play nice now.”

He slammed the door to the cell and stomped back out into the daylight, ignoring the curses being shouted after him. In truth, it wasn’t much different from the way he’d expect her to act if she’d ever been captured by someone. Her mouth was always the biggest problem with her. That and her overconfidence.

He’d barely made it ten feet in the direction of the Great Hall before he once again felt a thin hand tightly grip his sleeve and proceed to usher him towards the Godswood. What in the fucking hells was it about Northern women that they thought he could be dragged about like some snot-nosed whelp? He made to yank his arm away and was met with a steely hazel gaze. It was Sansa’s handmaiden. He couldn’t recall her name. She’d never mattered enough for him to learn it.

“Kindly come with me, m’lord,” the maid said with as much disdain for his title as she could put in the words. Oddly, it made him more willing to follow her. She clearly didn’t think too much of titles. Or maybe it was just him she objected to having one? He allowed her to take them out of sight, but not as far in as he’d allowed Arya to bring him. He needed to be able to escape quickly if things went badly. He planted his feet and didn’t let her budge him even one more foot once he thought they’d gone far enough.

“Speak, woman,” he gruffly commanded, his arms crossed over his chest.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know who I am?”

He nodded. “You’re her maid.”

“Name’s Beccah,” she provided.

“Don’t care,” he replied drily. “What is it you want?”

She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. “I love my Queen.”

He waited, but when she said nothing else, he spat out, “That’s all? Good for you.”

“Do you love her?”

He glared at her. Impertinent little bitch. “None of your fucking business.”

“You’re to marry her, very soon from what I hear, and I hear everything.”

“Nosey little twat, are you?”

She smirked. “In service of her Grace, absolutely.”

She was loyal, he’d give her that much. Didn’t mean he had to stand there and listen to her.

“What do you want?” he asked again, more irritably than before.

She seemed hesitant, but only briefly before the look of determination was back.

“Her Grace has the Soldiers Shock.”

Sandor regarded her closely for a moment. He knew what she meant. Men who’d pissed themselves the first time they’d set food on a battlefield. Or had run screaming from the fighting. Green boys crying and rocking like babes behind shrubs or under wagons, wailing for their mother’s. Or worse. Those that were dead behind their eyes. They walked around like they were normal most of the time, but when something happened to set them off, they became violent or frozen with fear. Those were the ones who later became dangerous. Needed to be put down.

He needed more to go one. “Keep talking.”

She pulled in a deep breath. “She has terrible night terrors. Screams and thrashes about. Hurt herself a few times before I could rouse her. She gets lost, too. Can stay lost for hours.”

“Lost?” It was her childhood home. How in the hells did she get lost there?

She nodded. “Like with her gown. She got lost and stood too close to the fire. Didn’t even notice it was aflame at the bottom.”

Her expression was worried and protective as she stared openly at him. It clicked into place. He’d seen her eyes drift out of focus for moments at a time. When something finally drew her attention, she’d seem confused about where she was, but masked it well. He’d known she was damaged by the Bastard, but it was worse than he’d imagined.

“She’s terrified of the cock, too.”

Sandor damned near choked on his tongue. Beccah rolled her eyes impatiently and muttered something unintelligible under her breath before she levelled him with an exasperated look.

“Big man like you rattled by such a small word,” she scolded with a roll of her eyes, then mumbled, “doesn’t bode well for the Queen.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He may not hit a woman, but if she kept on, he might shake her a little.

“Pay attention, and I’ll tell you how to make her less scared of you. Might get her with child before she’s too old to issue any.”

He couldn’t believe her bluntness. It rankled him and his annoyance shot through in his voice when he snapped, “I look like a bloody green boy to you?”

“Wanna know what I did before I was employed here in Winterfell?” she countered without answering his question, then continued without his reply. “I was a scullery maid at the Dreadfort.”

Fury shot through him. She’d been in the Bolton’s employ? How in the seven hells had she been allowed to get so close to the bloody Queen?

“Before your get your sword, hear the rest of my story,” she demanded harshly. Something in her tone stayed his hand, but only just.

“The Bastard made it a sport to torture the pretty ones,” she said, her tone infused with hate. “Lucky I’m so plain. Unlucky my younger sister, Villy, that she wasn’t.”

She paused and cleared her throat. “Don’t know how many times he raped her. She lost count. But she was much like our Queen for a year to follow. Bad dreams. Screamed when someone touched her. Frightened of anyone with blue eyes. Father got her married off somehow. Rhys is a good man. Gentle. Careful. She’s almost herself again. More cautious. Still loses herself, but he brings her back. She’s with child. Due in a moon’s turn.”

She turned to look at him with an unfathomable expression on her long face. “I can teach you how to help her, if you’re man enough to let me.”

He greatly disliked that any refusal he issued somehow called his manhood – or his devotion to Sansa – into question.

“What makes you think I need your help?”

She eyed him dubiously. “No offence, m’lord, but you look about as gentle as a bramble bush, and twice as gnarly.”

His lip twitched. She reminded him of Arya, and a little bit of his wife-to-be. No wonder she liked her maid.

“She know where you used to work?”

Affronted, Beccah puffed up. “Course she does! Why do you think she picked me to be her handmaid?”

That surprised him – and it didn’t. The woman was uniquely experienced in the darker areas of Sansa’s life that most couldn’t fully understand. But, Beccah did.

“Get on with it then.” He sighed. When the hell did he get so bloody soft?

She seemed as surprised as him at his easy acceptance. She nodded and braced herself.

“You raised with a Septa?”

“Aye. You want me to write her something?” he nearly snarled. Better not be poetry. He’d wipe his arse with it sooner than give it to her.

She shook her head. “I want you to think on the pretty words of some of the love songs. Use them. Make her feel special.”

He clenched his fists and tried not to growl. That was her advice?!

“What the fuck makes you think I was ever read stories like that? I look like a bloody lady to you?” he growled harshly.

“You look like a big man who’s going to want his even bigger cock ridden by a woman who’s more likely to run away screaming than to lay beneath you and sing your name!” she shot back fiercely.

It was cruel the way those images appeared simultaneously in his mind. He tried not to show it on his face. He stared stonily at her. She seemed to come back to herself as she pulled in a deep breath to try and speak a little more respectfully.

“Villy was scared of everything Rhys did. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he looked at her. But he figured out one day that she had never been spoken to sweetly. Not by a man, anyway. So, he gave her that. Sweet words. Very soft touches. He’d brush her hair. Praise her for every little thing. She’d been so used to cruelty that it was different. It got through. She started smiling. Held his hand. Would go to him for a kiss. He even teases that now he’s the one dodging her advances.” She smiled widely, a far-off look of pure happiness on her freckled face. When she turned back to him, her expression fell to something far more skeptical.

“Think you can manage that, m’lord?”

He considered her words before he nodded. “Doesn’t seem that hard.”

She hummed, but looked at him critically before she muttered, “We’ll see.”

He went to leave again when a hand on his wrist stopped him. He whirled on her and glared, but she was unimpressed. He idly wondered when he’d lost his touch.

“Just so you aren’t surprised on your wedding night,” she said evenly, “she’s got some scars.”

His eyebrows shot up. So, the rumors were true then. The Bastard had carved her up like a roast. He tried not to growl at her.

“Who doesn’t?” It wasn’t like that mattered to someone like him. When her eyes flickered to the burned side of his face, he sneered. “At least hers aren’t so visible.”

Beccah’s eyes darkened. “Hers are everywhere **but** her face. He needed her pretty to keep the Northern lords happy.”

His blood ran cold. So, those stories were true as wellSandor cursed under his breath and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Fucking whoreson was lucky he was already dead. He’d have made the cunt suffer for days. Weeks even.

“She’s very sensitive about them. Hates them. Thinks they make her ugly.”

“Nothing could make her ugly,” he responded without thinking. He hadn’t meant for the thought to be spoken, but it had forced its way past his lips and leapt out into the world to make itself known. Not that it was a bloody secret. Any fool with eyes saw how beautiful she was. Scars didn’t change that.

“So long as you know. She’ll be shy about being unclothed. Even when . . .” she let the statement trail off unfinished. It didn’t take a smart man to understand where she had been headed. 

A slow flush crept into her pale cheeks and her eyes darted away from his. She cleared her throat loudly.

“One last thing,” she said in a tone that sounded a bit more unsure. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. He’d barely tolerated it as it was.

“Villy got into her cups one night, told me some . . . intimate things,” she said tightly.

“I don’t need –“ he started to object, but she spoke loudly over him.

“Apparently, Rhys had eased her into . . . being bedded by being very good with his hands,” she swallowed thickly, “and his tongue. Made sure she was always pleased before he ever tried to bed her. Sometimes wouldn’t even try. Just made it all about her. That – she said it made her trust him more. Love him more.”

He was sure it did. Women’s needs weren’t a high priority. As he’d only ever been with whores, he hadn’t bothered trying. Most didn’t bother faking. He knew how it all worked, though. Pretty sure he was clever enough to figure it out on his own.

“Anyway,” Beccah said brusquely, “Just thought I’d try and help my Queen as much as I can. She’s already done so much for me.”

“Just by giving you a place as her maid?” It didn’t add up. Beccah smiled again, right at him that time.

“Not just that,” she shared. “She made Rhys a soldier in her personal guard. Said she trusted anyone who’d hated the Bastard as much as him. And gives Villy work as her personal seamstress. My sister lives very comfortably now. Her babe will want for nothing. Her Grace has sworn it.”

Soft hearted Little Bird. Even the Bastard hadn’t beaten that out of her. Or Baelish. Or Joff. She was a walking miracle, that woman. And she’d picked him. The gods must be laughing it up, for all the sense it made.

He looked at the girl with a begrudging respect. Life had been shit for her and hers, yet there they were, fighting to get what they needed. Being kind to those who’d suffered like them, or worse. He quietly wondered if his mother had survived, would he have been more like Beccah? Probably not.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She studied him a moment, her eyes serious as her gaze roved all over. After what seemed like an age, she sighed quietly and shook her head.

“Just be sweet to her. I don’t think anyone every has. She needs to learn not all men are equal.”

He had no doubt the girl was right. The Imp may have been kind enough, but he doubted the little shite ever went out of his way for her. The other two . . . they weren’t men. They were cunts. Didn’t count.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and he would.

Problem was he had no idea just how to do that. Flowery words and gentleness did not come naturally to him. Seemed like a perfectly good way to waste time that could be spent fucking. He’d had to adjust that line of thinking with the Little Bird. He scrubbed his hand over his face and felt his scarred cheek twitch. It happened when he was angry or stressed.

Nothing more to say, he turned and stomped off. As soon as he entered the courtyard, the harried rush of men and raised voices set his whole body to high alert. Something had happened. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he hurried towards the East gate. Men on horses rode in, a small wheelhouse pulled behind it. It was nearly surrounded by soldiers that all bore the Glover emblems.

Before he made it halfway to the lot, a silver crown of direwolves that sat on flaming red hair came into view in front of him. Sandor shoved men out of the way to get to her side more quickly. He breathed slightly easier when he saw the she wolf right beside her, Davos and the Maester only an arms reach away. He moved to stand with them as the door to the wheelhouse opened. A frail woman with deep brown hair stepped out, her face deeply etched with grief. Once on the ground, she turned and helped a boy no more than seven out, before she lifted a small girl into her arms and carried her over to where they all stood.

“Lady Glover,” Sansa said in a warm voice. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

With the small girl still attached to her, the lady gave a deep courtesy, bowing her head in deference.

“Please forgive the intrusion, your Grace,” Lady Glover’s voice was as willowy as she was. “These are my children –“

“You must be Ser Gawen,” Sansa said to the lad with a wide smile.

His large brown eyes widened impossibly as he shook his head. “I’m not a knight, your Grace.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said with kindness. “Such a big boy like you, I thought surely you must be a knight already.”

Her words worked to ease the tension in both the boy and his mother. Both of them smiled warmly at her. Sansa turned her attention the girl clinging to her mother. She stepped slightly closer to the Lady and gave the child a soft, dreamy smile. When she spoke again, Sandor was surprised at just how sweet she was. He didn’t think that side of her still existed.

“Hello lady Erena,” she cooed. “Welcome to my castle. Would you like to come in and have something warm to eat?”

The little girl stared at her Queen with wide, unfathomable eyes, but said nothing. Lady Glover clutched her a little tighter to her chest.

“Forgive her, my Queen,” she said humbly. “Erena doesn’t speak much. She’s been through so much in her young life, so she is very fearful of strangers.”

“Of course,” Sansa murmured and gave them all a sad smile. “Please, come with me and we’ll see you rested and fed. After you have had some time to relax from your journey, we can speak privately.”

Sansa turned to the Maester and soldiers behind her. “Please make up guest quarters for Lady Glover and her retinue. Her men can stay in the barracks with our own. Make them welcome and see to their needs.”

She then turned at look at him. “I need to speak with you and Arya.”

He nodded and followed them into the Great Keep. Once inside the Queen’s solar, Arya closed the door and leaned against it. Sansa eyed her warily. He couldn’t blame her. The last time he’d seen Arya she hadn’t even worn her own face.

“You always were a creepy one,” he muttered to her as he warmed his hands by the fire.

Arya grinned. “You have no idea.”

“Starting to see that,” he admitted. Strange woman. Glad they were on the same side.

“Did you learn anything?” The Little Bird asked, all business.

“Not much,” Arya admitted. “They call themselves ‘The True North’ and hate everything our family stands for since father died. Sounds like this has been brewing for a while. Probably back when Robb was King. But the biggest issue was when Jon let wildlings down here.”

“Not surprising,” Sandor contributed. He was Hand, after all. Better start acting like it. “You spent centuries killing each other. Hate like that runs deep. Can’t be wiped out in a few months, greater threat or no.”

“Why haven’t we seen or heard anything before now?” Sansa asked, her face set in a dissatisfied frown.

“Didn’t you say that Glover refused to fight with you to get your castle back because of the wildlings?” he asked. He was sure he’d heard that before.

“Then he apologized in front of all the other Northern houses,” Sansa reasoned. “And I don’t get the feeling these are men from the Mott.”

“They aren’t,” her sister agreed. “At least, Corbin isn’t.”

“That his name?” Sandor grunted. Didn’t really matter. Dead men didn’t need names.

Arya nodded. “He’s definitely low born, too. This isn’t a plot put together by nobility to take the throne. I don’t get the impression it’s all that well thought out. They just want you dead.”

“They would have had better luck coming after me right after I was crowned,” Sansa muttered. “Or even before when Jon was being held hostage in King’s Landing.”

Arya looked thoughtful. “It was war before. Everyone was trying to just get through it. Sometimes the lesser of two evils is the only way to do that. They may have hated us, but were human. The Night King, and then the Dragon Queen, they had to be defeated. People will do just about anything to keep their skins. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’ and all that.”

Sandor snorted. “That kind of bullshit come from Braavos?”

Arya shrugged. “Not sure where it came from originally, but that’s where I was the first time I heard it. It makes sense, though.”

“An enemy is an enemy no matter how you look at it,” he argued.

“Really?” she challenged with a raised brow. “You want me to list all the ways you are wrong in alphabetical order, in is there another way you prefer?”

He was about to snap at her when Sansa walked between them and placed a gentle hand on his arm. Just like that, he felt his irritation evaporate out of him in a great cloud, like when the lid is removed from a boiling pot. His anger still simmered, but it was easily ignored. Or maybe it was just transferred to his betrothed. The frustration on her face was dark on thunderous as a summer storm.

“I wonder what it is about me that seems to give men murderous thoughts,” she muttered irritably. “They wouldn’t have tried this with Jon.”

“No, they just didn’t show up to help,” Arya reminded her. “They weren’t going to kill him themselves; they were going to leave his fate to the White Walkers.”

Sansa didn’t seem convinced.

“They’re threatened by you,” he offered. “Wouldn’t have sent an assassin, shit as he is, if they weren’t.”

“Actually, I think they just don’t like her.”

He stared at Arya with a stony expression. She wasn’t being helpful.

“It’s why they sent that sorry whoreson we have locked in the cells. He’s probably really low level.”

“Then why would they have trusted him to kill the bloody Queen?” Sandor shot out.

Arya looked at him like he was the dumbest shit to ever put on boots.

“Because he was expendable. They knew he wouldn’t succeed. They wanted him to be caught. He’s so fanatical that they also knew he wouldn’t tell us anything important. Mostly because they never trusted him with anything of significance, even if he thinks otherwise.”

“They just wanted us to know they were after her,” he surmised. He wasn’t as stupid as she thought, despite what he expression showed.

She nodded. “That’s my guess.”

Sandor scrubbed a hand down his face. “Best to kill him then and send a message.”

Sansa looked at him strangely. “You think his people are close by?”

He looked at her carefully as he tried to consider how much she could handle. When her expression frosted over, he recalled exactly why she’d asked him to be Hand. She wanted his blunt honesty.

“I think there are spies in the castle,” he informed her. “Not many, but one is all it takes. Probably more in Winter Town.”

She swallowed and her sister inched towards her. “He’s right, you know. It’s what I’d do. Hells, it’s what I’ve done. Sometimes the best place to go unnoticed is in plain sight.”

The Little Bird shivered, but nodded her head. “How should we proceed?”

“Kill him,” he and the she wolf said in unison. Sansa gave a very un-Queenly snort and raised her brow.

“Are you going to flip a coin for it?” she mocked bluntly. Arya looked intrigued by the idea, but he saw no need.

“She’s your shield,” he nodded towards her sister. “It’s her job. Unless you want me to teach you to use a sword?”

Arya barked a loud laugh that made the Little Bird scowl fiercely. She didn’t even try to hide her mirth; just chuckled as she shook her head at the mere thought. Since he didn’t want to face the redhead’s wrath, he kept his expression neutral.

“Make sure Lady Glover’s children aren’t there,” Sansa said quietly. “They’ve seen enough at their tender ages.”

Arya’s expression blanked for a moment, but then she shrugged. “Let your maid look after them. She likes children.”

Sansa turned to him. “Tell the Maester to send for Ser Gerrick and Ser Rhys. I want them to bear witness to the passing of the sentence, as well as anything the man says before he is dealt with. We’ll assemble near the East Gate. I don’t want blood on the floors of the Great Hall again. It took them a while to get the smell out and made the room feel different.”

Sandor shook his head. “You’ll be too exposed out in the open like that.”

Sansa considered him for a moment. “I’ll stand on the bridge with the Maester and Ser Davos.”

“Not bloody good enough. Neither can swing a sword worth a shit,” he countered evenly.

“Have Gerrick and Rhys up there, too,” Arya provided evenly. “They can at least carry you inside should anything go wrong.”

“I don’t need to be carried,” she grumbled petulantly. It was moments like those that he saw the young girl he’d travelled the King’s Road with all those years ago. He tried not to smile. Didn’t know how well he succeeded.

“Do you think it will?” she asked them directly. “Go wrong, I mean.”

Sandor shrugged. “It could be an opportunity.”

“There are opportunities daily,” she reminded them. “I won’t live my life in fear. I will not cower to anyone, not ever again.”

“You go nowhere alone anymore,” Sandor practically ordered as he jabbed his finger at her. He didn’t care if she was bloody Queen. It was his job to keep her alive. She’d made it his job. “Either she is with you, or me. If we can’t be, you have at least three capable men walk you everywhere. The only thing worse than a dead Queen is a kidnapped one.”

Sansa scowled at him, but nodded her head. “It will be done.”

He stepped closer to her and his hand twitched, aching to touch her. Her sister was still there. He settled on soft words. “No one will touch you, Little Bird.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “Or you’ll kill them; I know.”

He hesitated, unsure, but the maid’s words rang through his head and he reached out. To hell with the she wolf. She could look away for all her cared. It didn’t matter to him. She did. She was all that mattered. He brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek, secretly thrilled by the way her skin heated under his touch. Her blue eyes seemed to glow as she stared at him.

The loud clearing of a throat startled them both and his hand dropped back to his side. He turned at glared at Arya as she pranced from the room.

“At least wait until I’m down the hall before you start fucking,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ve been traumatized enough in my short life.”

The door slammed behind her before he could reach out and wring her scrawny neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nawwww, isn't he sweet . . .sorta. Who loves Sandor? I know I do ;-)


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most abject and humble apologies for the delay in posting. I have just sold my house, and this was a bit more dramatic than anticipated. But, I'm done now! So, that means we should be back to normalish posting again.   
> Thanks for the comments and kudos! You all warm my little heart xx

Chapter 12

SANSA

She stood flanked between Ser Davos and Maester Wolkan, a heavy fur cloak wrapped around her body. The sun was hidden behind storm clouds and thick, fat flakes floated down from the sky like feathers from a ruptured pillow. There was next to no wind, which saved them all from frostbite. Many and more gathered inside the East Gate to see Queen handle her would-be assassin. Word had travelled fast. There was barely enough room to swing a sword – not that her sister required much room – before her guards created a perimeter around Arya and Sandor and moved the people back.

Lady Glover stood with Lord Manderley were on the bridge with Sansa. She had decided to give them the best view she could, as befitted their station. Ser Garrick and Ser Rhys guarded each exit off the bridge. No one could access it without going through them, and that was highly unlikely. Arya and Sandor stood below, both armed to the teeth. She’d made sure of it. Not that she’d had to. They usually had more weapons on them than could be seen by the untrained eye.

The boy – Corbin – stood before them, hands and feet shackled to prohibit him from running or fighting back. Sansa had already addressed the court and the young man – by pronouncing his crimes of treason to the crown, and attempted assassination of the Queen. She’s sentenced him to death while he glared malevolently at her.

“Do you have any last words before your sentence is carried out?” Her voice rang out, loud and clear. She’d hoped he didn’t, but that hope proved to be in vain.

“I don’t answer to you, cunt!” he howled. People in the crowd gasped. Lord Manderley made a sound of clear displeasure, while Davos, Wolkan, and Sybelle regarded the traitor with stony expressions.

He spat in the snow by Sandor’s feet. “Kill me, Hound. There’s more where I came from. You’ll never get us all. We’re legion. We’re everywhere.”

Sandor smirked at him. “It’s not me that will kill you.”

Arya stepped up and placed her hand on the hilt of Needle. Her expression was cold, blank, unreadable.

“You’ve got two choices. Tell us who leads you, who the rest of you are, and you get a clean death. Otherwise . . .” She let her words die off and gave a small shrug.

“The Bastard leads us,” he hissed and laughed maniacally. Sansa’s whole body went rigid.

Arya stepped closer. “Ramsay Snow is dead. He was eaten by his own hounds.”

Corbin cackled like a mad man and threw his head back. “HE IS DEAD NO MORE! HE CAME BACK TO SET US FREE FROM THE WHORE QUEEN WHO DARES CALL HERSELF STARK!”

Sansa’s stomach twisted violently and she had to clench her teeth to keep bile from spewing forth. His mind was gone. There was no other explanation. He was simple or ill or . . . or . . . or he knew what words would rattle her the most. It had worked magnificently.

“Last chance, Corbin,” Arya warned. His wild eyes turned to her.

“IT’S YOUR LAST CHANCE!” he screamed. “BOW TO HIM! KILL THE WHORE QUEEN WHO LET WILDLINGS INTO YOUR LANDS! WHO FUCKED HER BASTARD BROTHER AND BEWITCHED HIM TO KILL THE LAST DRAGON! DEATH TO ALL WHO CALL THEMSEVES STARK! **THE TRUTH NORTH WILL NOT BEND TO YOUR WILL!!!”**

She’d heard enough. With a slight nod of her head that Arya caught from the corner of her eye, she watched her sister as she lunged forward, sword in hand. After a slashing motion her arm flew upwards. Needle pointed up into the sky, blade glistening red, before Corbin’s eyes bugged out of his head and he looked down in time to see his insides spill out of him and dump in a steaming pile onto the snow at his feet. Women screamed at the sight of such gore and Sansa had to keep her jaw clenched tightly or she would have been sick. Corbin gave a gurgled scream as he fell to his knees and tried to hold himself together. Thick tubes of his insides slipped through his fingers and steamed in snow by his feet as he wailed in wordless agony.

Lord Manderley cleared his throat. “Your Grace.”

Before Sansa could swallow enough to command her sister to end it, Needle flashed through the air again. A gash opened in his throat, much as it had with Baelish, and he moved up to grasp at that. It was only moments before he choked to death on his own blood and slumped face first into the filth of his remains. Arya sheathed her sword and looked severely into the crowd.

“Let it be known that anyone who dares try to hurt our Queen, or any of her loyal subjects, will be put to death . . . by me,” she called out to the crowd ominously.

“I gave him the chance to die like a man,” she continued. “He chose a cowards death. A traitor’s death. Let this be a lesson to any who thought to follow him.”

She turned on her heel and walked purposefully from the area, only stopping to give Sansa a bow of respect as she entered the Great Keep.

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. “As your Queen, it is my duty to keep our lands safe and to see our people prosperous. Any threats of harm, to any one of you, will be dealt with swiftly and fairly. Any information that anyone can provide on the traitor’s connections will be suitably rewarded. I hope to avoid any more of these unpleasant displays.”

“Unpleasant, but necessary,” Lord Manderley chimed in from his spot a few feet away. Sansa gave him an appreciative nod. “Even your kind heart has it’s limits, my Queen.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” She turned back to her people. “Maester Wolkan is available should anyone require assistance. Go well throughout the rest of your day.”

Sansa turned and walked across the bridge and into the Great Keep. She had barely made it to her solar before she stared shaking violently. She went to pour herself a goblet of wine, but her hands trembled too much and only succeeded in making one hell of a mess. A hand on her shoulder tore a scream from her lips as she swung her cup wildly in the direction from which it came.

“Easy my lady,” Ser Davos said in a gentle voice. “Forgive me, _your Grace_.”

Her hands shook and her heart thundered so loudly it echoed in her ears. She tried to shake her head at his slip – what did it matter, really? – but her teeth chattered and she nearly bit her tongue. Worried blue eyes met hers before his gaze swiveled around towards the door and he stepped out of her line of sight. Grey eyes held hers and calloused hands cradled her face.

“He’s dead. You know he his. You watched his dogs eat his face, for fuck’s sake! And then you burned his dogs and had the ashes scattered far from the walls of Winterfell. He’s dead. Say the words, Sansa. He’s dead.”

“H-h-he’s dead,” she squeaked.

“You killed him.”

She nodded, but that wasn’t good enough for Arya.

“Say it,” she insisted. “You killed him.”

“I killed him,” Sansa whispered.

“Louder! You killed him!”

“I killed him.” More volume. Her voice was stronger. The room stopped spinning. Her breaths came easier.

“That’s right! You fucking killed him!” Arya said vehemently.

“I fucking killed him!” Sansa nearly shouted. She didn’t think she’d ever cursed before, but it felt good. She felt strong. Powerful. She pulled in a deep, steadying breath and dared a glance around the room. Ser Davos stood by Maester Wolkan, Sandor just behind them. His hulking frame blocked the door. She met his heated gaze and tried to decipher what she saw in his eyes, but was interrupted by her annoying – yet surprisingly helpful – little sister.

“Feels damned good, doesn’t it?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

Sansa didn’t want to admit that it had, so she simply didn’t acknowledge the question. Instead, she turned to Wolkan.

“How are our guests after such a display?” she inquired carefully. The death had been far more gruesome than she’d anticipated. She’d have a word with Arya about that when they were alone. A good ruler never did those things with an audience unless it couldn’t be helped.

Wolkan avoided looking at Arya. “They are well, my Queen. Lady Glover has gone to the Godswood to pray for her husband’s safe return. It was wise to prevent children attending today. I dare say Lord Manderley was impressed with your . . . display, Princess.”

“Men are often enthralled with violence,” Arya said drily. “It’s why so many try to become knights. So they can hide their proclivities behind some horseshit title and misguided sense of justice.”

Ser Davos looked amused, Sandor nodded in agreement, but Wolkan frowned. Sansa didn’t think the two of them would ever see eye to eye on anything other than the fact that Arya would not be a suitable Queen of the North.

“Men like your Lord Manderley respect strength, no matter who shows it, Princess,” Davos provided. “From what I understand, he very much respected your parents.”

Both women nodded.

“He did,” Sansa agreed. “Father believed that he who passed the sentence, should swing the sword. As I cannot do both, Arya does the latter for me. But we are both Starks. I only hope the lords and ladies see it that way.”

“They do, your Grace,” Wolkan rushed to assure her, but she Sansa Sandor frown slightly.

“You disagree?” she asked him openly.

He looked at the Maester before he answered. “Most of them do, otherwise you wouldn’t be Queen. But there might be a few who still see you as a Bolton, or worse, a Lannister.”

Arya turned to him with a scowl, but she didn’t say a word.

“Reminds me of what the little Lady Mormont said when we came asking for men from Bear Island,” Davos provided.

Sansa recalled with perfect clarity Lady Lyanna’s words. They still smarted, even after all the time that had passed. Mostly because they weren’t untrue. She walked over to a window that overlooked the courtyard. People bustled around below, seemingly unperturbed by the threat that still loomed over them all. It wasn’t just the Queen that had been attacked. Lord Glover was still missing and there were increased reports of attacks on small folk farms and mills between Winterfell and the Wall. But no other reports of attacks on castles. It was strange.

“I wonder how many of them feel the same as Corbin,” she murmured to herself, but her sister had heard it.

“I could find out if you want,” she offered seriously.

“How?” She was pretty sure she already knew, and she misliked it greatly.

“Same way I learned from Corbin.”

Sansa closed her eyes and tried not to groan out loud. When she opened them again her sister’s expression was clear, but guarded.

“Do what you must, but please be careful.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “I won’t be discovered. I’m better at this than you think I am.”

“I have no doubt that you are incredibly talented,” Sansa deadpanned. “I meant be careful with yourself. I cannot replace you.”

Arya gave a small smile. “You won’t have to. I’m the best there is. On this side of the Narrow Sea, anyway.”

Arya all but pranced from the room, far more gracefully than Sansa had ever seen her move before her ‘water dancing’ lessons. Davos’ eyes followed her movements with respect and slight bit of discomfort.

“Thank the Gods she’s on our side,” he muttered before turning back to Sansa. “You’ll need to arrange for guards while she is otherwise occupied, Queen Sansa.”

She nodded in agreement, but was interrupted before she could reply.

“I’ll stay with her. We’ve got matters to discuss anyway,” Sandor offered.

“Not without a chaperone, you won’t,” the Maester countered, clearly annoyed with Sandor’s lack of propriety. Sandor, for his part, didn’t look all that pleased at being told what to do.

“She’s been married twice before, you dumb shit,” he snarled. “There’s no maidenhead to take. And even if there were, I’m not the sort of man to take anything without permission.”

Wolkan flushed red, and Sansa immediately came to his aid. If she didn’t, she was pretty sure he’d say something Sandor would find insulting, which would result in Sandor beating some respect into him. She didn’t have time for all that nonsense. Men, she found, were often far more prickly than women were.

“You may send Beccah up to my chambers once she is back from visiting her sister,” she told him in a firm voice. “Until then, Sandor and I shall remain here with guards outside the doors for my protection. In the meantime, I need you to send ravens to Bear Island, Greywater Watch, Castle Cerwyn, and Karhold to request their presence for my wedding. Tell them if they cannot send their lord or lady themselves, to send a steward to bear witness and enjoy the comforts of Winterfell. Also, they should send at least twenty fighting men that will stay until the traitors attacking our lands can be dealt with. Then I’d like you to send ravens to Karhold, which is held by Lady Poole, as well as Torrhen’s Square, Hornwood, Borrowtown, Widow’s Watch, Dormund Keep, Ironwrath, High Point, and Rillwater Crossing. Tell them of my upcoming marriage and my pledge to see the North protected from all that would harm us. They must send thirty good fighting men to Winterfell to be hosted until the threat is dealt with. Then send another raven to Jon at the Wall. Gendry should have arrived by now and I want him to return with as many men as they can spare. Thankfully, they no longer hold to the vow of not getting involved in disputes of the crown and will provide men and women to either crown when requested.”

Neither man looked pleased by her proclamation, which meant it was more than fair. The Maester bid her good evening and left the room with a bow. Once they were alone, Sandor crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned against the wall, his face impassive. Sansa rolled her eyes and settled down on her settee by the fire.

“Say whatever it is that’s on your mind,” she invited him. “You’ve never held back before.”

He studied her closely for a time before he blurted out, “You should curse more often.”

Startled, Sansa stuttered out a light laugh. When he smirked at her, she eyed him speculatively.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” It was meant to be a joke, but his expression shifted and his eyes burned the way they had earlier. The laugh died in her throat.

“More than you know,” he murmured.

Sansa’s mouth went dry. The wine she’d poured had been left on her desk and it was too far to reach without getting back up. Not interested in letting him know just how much he unsettled her, she decided to look back at the fire. How was it that he rattled her so much with so little effort? Why couldn’t she have that effect on him?

“Why so few men?” he rasped from his corner.

“Pardon?” She turned to him, perplexed.

“In your ravens to your vassals,” he clarified. “You only asked for a few men from each house. They could easily send you at least five times as many. Why so few?”

“Those who are loyal will send more without my asking, simply because they are loyal and want to help their Queen,” she said plainly. “Those who are not, will only send for what I asked.”

“You’re better at scheming than you used to be,” he said after he’d regarded her silently for a few minutes.

She frowned a little. “It’s not all a scheme. With attacks happening in different places, and no way to predict them, I have no wish to cripple a house’s protection by asking for too many soldiers. If they are attacked and their men are here to guard me, they will blame me, and I will have lost the love of another house.”

“You don’t need them to love you,” he replied evenly. “Just obey you.”

“Obedience without love won’t go far,” she countered knowingly. “I’d rather have someone’s allegiance and respect than blind obedience.”

“Do you want to be loved, Little Bird?”

He stared openly at her in a way that made her skin tingle. It wasn’t unpleasant. She didn’t quite know how to describe the effect he had on her, but she enjoyed it far more than she had anything in quite some time. It was better than lemon cakes. Better than watching Ramsay getting eaten by hounds. Better than being crowned Queen. She found herself saying the same words she’d uttered many years ago, but this time there was no naivety behind them.

“Doesn’t everyone want to be loved?” Her voice was deeper than usual. Softer.

She watched with some satisfaction as he swallowed thickly, his eyes locked on hers. Her heart sped as his arms uncrossed and he casually pushed off from the wall. He walked slowly over to where she sat. He seemed to hesitate momentarily before he carefully sank down on his knees in front of her. Sansa was glad she was already seated. Seeing a powerful man such as him kneel before her made her insides melt and her knees tremble. She idly wondered when she’d started to entertain romantic notions again, after she’d thought them so thoroughly beaten out of her. Literally.

She bit her lip as he reached forward and plucked one of her hands – thankfully not shaking like the rest of her – off of her lap. His gaze burned her in the most delicious way, but the implication behind it also terrified her. There was no denying that he wanted her. She’d seen men look at her that way for many years. But she wasn’t afraid of the man himself, which is what kept her present and made her stomach flutter with anticipation – not fear – when he slowly raised her hand to his face. She’d thought he would press a kiss to the top of her hand, like in the stories she’d loved as a girl. But she wasn’t a girl anymore, and this was no story. His lips grazed the inside of her wrist, and he pressed a soft kiss to her palm instead.

She didn’t know when she’d started to move towards him. But somehow her free hand ended up pressed delicately to his chest, while the other reached up and cupped his unscarred cheek. She reached around and threaded her fingers through his dark hair and pulled him towards her. He let her, of course. She didn’t have the strength to move a man such as him. Which told her that he’d wanted it as much as she did.

She was surer of herself than the last time. She wanted to feel some of his desire for her. More than that, she wanted to explore the heat she’d come to feel for him. She didn’t know when it had developed. It suddenly was just **there** , and it couldn’t be denied. She ran her tongue along his lower lip and scratched her nails over the back of his neck. She felt him go still beneath her hand, but his heart hammered in his chest. She could tell he liked it, but he didn’t deepen the kiss the way she’d expected. He stayed gentle, his lips barely more than a whisper on hers. It was disarming in its sweetness. She stopped trying to tempt him and just allowed herself to enjoy the moment. When he leaned into her slightly more and placed his hands on either side of her hips on the chaise, she hummed a content little sigh into his mouth.

He was up and across the room before she registered that he was gone. Startled by the swift change in his location, Sansa’s eyes fluttered open and searched around until they landed on him near the door. His hands were behind his back and he leaned against the stone with practiced ease, but the scars on his cheek jumped and twitched as he stared openly at her. Confused at what had just happened, she arched an eyebrow at him along with a small smile.

“You shouldn’t tease a man, Little Bird,” he rasped deeply. The shake in voice belied just how thinly stretched his control actually was. Her entire body flushed as something deep within her turned molten and spread through her core.

“I would never tease you,” she said in a near whisper.

He stopped breathing. His eyes stayed locked on hers as the moments crawled by. She waited to see which of them would break first.

The door practically slammed open, causing both of them to jump nearly out of their skins. Beccah bustled in with a fresh pitcher of wine and a platter of hard cheeses, fruits, and nuts, along with a loaf of bread.

“Thought you might be hungry, your Grace – oh!” She stopped in the middle of the room when she spied Sandor up against the wall. A smirk pulled at her lips as she set down the refreshments. She turned to Sansa with a knowing look.

“Appears I arrived just in time,” she said bluntly. When Sansa’s eyes widened at her words, she just grinned. “You look positively famished, my Queen.”

Sansa tried in vain not to blush, but it was all for naught. She studiously avoided looking at Sandor. She didn’t think she could bear the embarrassment. When a small plate of food was set down on her lap, she looked up at Beccah, who winked saucily at her. Gods, kill her now.

“Villy is working on altering your coronation gown to make a wedding dress,” her maid informed her airily. “Should be done within a week. Does that timeframe suit?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Sansa mumbled around a piece of apple. The glass houses helped provide them with fresh fruit year-round, which she thoroughly enjoyed. “And very practical. No use in making one from scratch. It will be a rather intimate affair with only a few in attendance.”

“That helps us get it under way sooner rather than later,” Beccah said, a knowing arch to her brows.

Sansa didn’t reply. Instead, she took a large bite of fruit. As far as she was concerned, the sooner the wedding took place, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for a royal wedding???


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I suck. I'm sorry. And to prove just how sorry, here's a long chapter where we start to earn that rating ;-)   
> Enjoy!

Chapter 13

SANDOR

He didn’t know how he was going to get through the day, or the night, for that matter. A few of the lords and ladies the Little Bird had invited to their wedding had arrived. Their wedding. Seven bloody hells, what had he gotten himself into?

Arya hadn’t heard anything valuable during her time as some pox-riddled green boy. Nothing useful to him, at least. She’d reassured her queenly sister that their people hadn’t believed any of the vile shit that had spewed from Corbin’s cunt face before he’d been gutted in the snow. Especially about her fucking her bastard brother. She wasn’t Cersei, for fucks sake.

There were some whispers, however. About the ghost of Ramsay Bolton haunting the Dreadfort. That he led an army of those that had been slaughtered by wildlings. That they’d all come back to take their revenge on the Stark heirs who’d let those wildlings into their stone walls, and shared meat and mead with them under the very roof of Winterfell.

Horseshit. There’d been no more wights or dead men walking since the Night King had been destroyed. By a bloody Stark, no less. His almost-wife had been far more shaken up by the talk of peasants than she ever should be. He’d tried to be comforting, but that wasn’t what he was good at. Although, he had to admit that being sweet to her had been easier – and far more difficult – than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t be sure, but he’d suspected that she was pushing his limits on purpose. He’d held on by a thread, her maid’s warnings ringing loudly through his mind whenever a touch or sigh made his cock twitch. He’d run from her like some thrice damned green boy more times than he’d cared to admit.

“My lord?” Ser Davos knocked on the door to the Queens solar. Sandor had been ordered to remain there until he was sent for.

“Enter,” he rasped. The older man came in, a smile on his face. Sandor nodded at him.

“Your presence is requested in the Godswood, my lord.” The man was far too cheerful. “I’ve been asked to escort you down myself.”

Sandor’s eyebrows knitted together. “I know where the bloody Godswood is.”

Davos grinned. “Apparently the Princess thinks you to be a flight risk.”

Sandor rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath. One jape. He’d made just one jape about leaving her sister to rule the bloody North on her own if she’d tried to make him dance at the wedding feast. He didn’t fucking dance and no one could make him. Not even his wife. **His wife**.

Cock sucking, donkey wanking, Septa slapping son of a whore. He was beyond fucked. Because she owned his arse and she damned well knew it. Which meant if she made big blue ‘please do what I ask of you, my lord husband’ eyes at him, his defenses were surer to crumble than that rickety tower that had barely survived the last war on Winterfell. Actually, the tower had a better chance at standing strong than he did.

“You look nervous, lord Clegane,” Davos stated with far too much mirth for Sandor’s liking.

He stomped from the room, tugging at the collar of his doublet. She’d stitched his house emblem on it herself. It was beautifully done, of course. He’d not seen the need. She wasn’t taking his name, remaining a Stark in name and passing that and high titles to any children they might have. It was an old custom, but one the Northern lords had readily embraced. He hadn’t given two shits, to be honest. His name had never been anything good. He’d take hers if it was suggested. He’d rather be one of them than the known brother of a raping murderer like Gregor.

“Nothing to be worried about,” he continued amiably. “Though I wish I’d had someone to tell me that before I wed. Was so nervous that I tossed up my breakfast. Had to gargle with wine before I headed to the sept. Didn’t want vomit dripping down my chin when I went to kiss my new bride.”

Sandor tried not to snort, but the laugh broke through his carefully crafted demeanor. Davos walked with him to the gate of the Godswood and followed him past the people gathered by the heart tree.

The ceremony had been simpler than he’d anticipated. She was beautiful, of course. No cloak was placed on her shoulders since she wasn’t under his protection – not in the traditional sense. Vows were said, but he couldn’t recall exactly what they were. He was careful when he kissed her, just as he had been every time before.

The celebration feast, like the wedding itself, was small, but the food was elegant. Lemon cakes, of course. The Little Bird’s favourite. But neither of them seemed to have much of an appetite. She was all smiles when she spoke to those who came to give them well wishes. After a time, people seemed to be into their cups, all loud laughter and boisterous talk. He leaned over to where his wife sat and muttered only loud enough for her to hear.

“Better than the last royal wedding than you attended?”

She spluttered out a surprised laugh into her wine goblet before turning incredulous eyes to him. She set her cup down and daintily dabbed at her lips with a napkin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with a wicked smile. “The last one had some real highlights that I remember quite fondly.”

He laughed lowly and surveyed the room. No one seemed to be paying too close attention to them. He reached his hand out for hers under the table. She glanced down out of the corner of her eye briefly before she laced her fingers through his. He stroked his thumb along the inside of her palm. She’d seemed to like it when he’d kissed her there. He felt a strange sort of pride when a soft smile tugged at her lips in response to his touch. Never had that before, had he?

Beccah suddenly appeared at Sansa’s shoulder and whispered discreetly. His wife swallowed thickly and nodded her head. Beccah turned and gave a sharp nod to someone in the hall. When Sandor followed the line of sight, Arya suddenly appeared on a table, that little blade of hers in hand.

“Who wants to try their luck?” she called out as she wobbled slightly and her ale sloshed from her cup. He couldn’t be entirely certain, but he’d bet his last coin that she wasn’t nearly as drunk as she tried to portray. But that was the trick, wasn’t it?

Men shouted and raised their tankards, while the women either shook their heads in dismay or smiled in encouragement. Nobility were a strange fucking lot. If she tried this in any tavern around the world there would be people lined up to try and best her. None of them would, of course. Even the Tarth bitch hadn’t been able to beat her from what he’d been told.

Suddenly, there were lips at his ear. He couldn’t stop the shiver that tumbled through his body as her hot breath washed over him. He didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to the casual way she touched him.

“Go up to my – our – solar and wait there until Beccah comes to get you. Slip out while everyone is distracted.”

“Men my size don’t ‘slip’ anywhere unnoticed, Little Bird,” he murmured back. When he glanced up to where she stood at his shoulder, he saw her smile a little.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best, my lord,” she whispered, and then she was gone, Beccah hot on her heels.

He turned and watched as some shit for brains lordling stood up, swayed on his feet, and reached for a sword that wasn’t there. No one, aside from Winterfell soldiers – and Arya – had been permitted weapons while inside the castle walls. New rule after Corbin.

It was the best opportunity he’d get, so he got up as quietly as he could manage. When Lord Manderley looked up at him, Davos stepped into the direct line of sight and clapped the man on his shoulder as he stared to regale the whole table with one of his many stories of being a smuggler. He’d owe the man. Dammit.

Sandor snuck from the Great Hall and made his way to the Great Keep where he stomped off the snow and sat by the fire that roared in the Little Bird’s private solar. He loosened the ties of his doublet to stop the collar from choking him. How did people wear clothes that suffocated them day in and out? Give him a leather jerkin or armour any day over the feathered finery lords pranced around in. Waste of fucking cloth if you asked him.

He avoided the wine that sat on the desk. He needed to keep his wits. What in the seven hells was he supposed to do on his wedding night besides fucking his new bride? But the maid had a point. And he wouldn’t prove to the Little Bird that he was just as bad as the rest. He scrubbed a hand over his face and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He’d never had to exercise any kind of control over his cock when in the room with a naked woman. If she was naked, he’d paid her to fuck him. He’d never had to be careful or gentle. He’d never had to please one, though sometimes he’d watch them please themselves, or it just happened in the natural course of things. Some weren’t bothered by his scars and were even pleased by what he’d had to offer. Those were the ones he’d seen repeatedly. It was better when they didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. He even touched them for time to time.

His dick twitched in his pants and he groaned in frustration. That line of thought did not help the situation. He was doomed. Best if he drank himself into a stupor and passed out in the solar. Couldn’t hurt her if he wasn’t even in the same room. He reached for the pitcher of wine.

The door opened and Beccah entered with a small curtsey. Seven hells. They were all expected to bow to him now that he’d married the bloody queen. Fuck his life. Thrice damned jape the Gods continued to play on him. He wondered when they’d have their fill of torment.

“If you’d like to come with me, m’lord,” Beccah said with very tight smile. That didn’t bode well.

“She already lost?” he guessed. Beccah shook her head.

“No, she’s just very nervous,” she tried to assure him. “The bath helped to calm her a little. I put lavender oil in it. She’ll be determined to give you whatever you want tonight.”

Her eyes were sharp as she pinned him with her gaze and repeated the last four words again for emphasis.

“I get it,” he snapped. She whirled around and blocked his path, hands on her hips. They were only feet away from the door to his new chambers. She glared at him.

“Do you need a few more minutes to gather yourself, my lord?” she hissed.

He pointed a finger at her. “Loyalty to your queen or no, you’d do well to stop trying to order me about!”

Her eyes flicked over him, feet to crown, before she crossed her arms over her chest tightly. Her expression shifted slightly and she looked off to the side.

“I don’t want to see her suffer anymore is all,” she muttered. She glanced at him briefly. “Thought you might be the kind of man who’d actually care for her. Perhaps I was mistaken, m’lord.”

He stepped closed and lowered his face to hers. “It’s not your job to protect her.”

“No,” she returned shortly. “It’s yours.”

He knew that, dammit! It’s what he’d been trying to do since the day she’d set off on the Kings Road with her fool father and wild little sister. He clenched his teeth so tightly that his scarred cheek twitched. Beccah eyed him warily, but stood her ground.

“She’s already rattled, m’lord. If you go in there in a foul temper, she’ll get lost again.”

Sandor closed his eyes, swallowed and tried to slow his breaths. It wasn’t the Little Bird’s fault her maid was such a nosy bitch.

“I apologize, m’lord,” she said, her tone much softer than before. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just wanted to try and help her. The way Villy had been helped. I just want to see her happy.”

He opened his eyes again, marginally calmer than before. He could hear the sincerity in her words and he respected her for the devotion she showed his wife. He couldn’t hate her for that. But he didn’t need her continuously breathing down his neck and telling him how to behave with his own wife, for fucks sake.

“So do I,” he grumbled.

She nodded at him and excused herself. He watched her walk away before he turned and headed towards the door. He raised his hand to knock twice before he dropped it each time. It was his room. Did he need to knock? His bloody head hurt already and he wasn’t even inside. In the end he made as much noise as possible while he opened the door. Didn’t want her jumping out of her skin.

She was perched on the edge of the bed, which was piled high with feather pillows and soft furs. She wore only a thin shift, and her hair tumbled freely over her back and shoulders. It shone in the firelight like polished copper. Any irritation that his body had held evaporated out of him at the sight of her. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. Her eyes flickered and flitted around, but didn’t meet his. The maid was right. She was afraid.

He walked over to the chaise that was angled near the fire. When he got there, he shed his doublet and cotton shirt and dropped them both to the stone floor unceremoniously. He unlaced his breeches enough that they were loose. No sense in taking them off. Wasn’t like he needed to be naked for what they were about to do. If she let him touch her at all. He sat and removed his boots.

“You were able to get out without being noticed?”

Her voice was thin and warbled, but at least she spoke. Showed that she was still there. That she wasn’t so afraid of him that she went back to her mindless chirping. It was something, at least.

“I take it you and your sister concocted that little show?” Made sense. She wouldn’t have wanted all the bawdy jokes or suggestion of a bedding. It was enough to frighten any woman; all those people pulling at clothes and ushering the new couple towards their bedchamber. She would have lost her fucking mind. And he would have killed more than one of them for daring to touch her, custom or no.

Sansa nodded, but said nothing else. He stared at her a moment as he decided the best way to proceed. In the end, he sat on the chaise and leaned back casually. He knew scars littered his body. He’d been a soldier for years. It did damage to the body to be in so many battles. He’d survived more than most, so he had more than his fair share. Some women found them appealing – showed he could fight to protect what was his. Some found them repulsive. She would have fit in the latter group when she was a girl. But he didn’t think that still applied.

When she didn’t make a move or turn to look at him, he gently patted his knee. Best to get the evening started. It would finish quicker that way.

“Let a man see you, Little Bird,” he said as gently as he could manage. His voice was always course, so he didn’t know how well he succeeded in being soft. It wasn’t his way, but for her he’d damned sure try.

Sansa swallowed and rose slowly up from the bed on shaky legs. She continued to avoid his gaze as she walked stiltedly over to stand before him. She trembled like a leaf in wind. He stamped down his anger – not at her; at the cunt responsible for her fear – and reached his hands out to take hers. They were ice cold and limp in his grasp. He leaned forward, eyes trained on her face for any sign that she needed him to stop, and pressed a kiss to one palm, then the other. Soft. Careful. As unthreatening as a hulking beast like him could be.

She released a shaky breath, but her eyes finally flickered to his before the returned to stare out of the windows. He tried to think of something to say. Something sweet, like the maid suggested. She hadn’t been wrong so far, no matter how much it annoyed him. But flowery words weren’t something he knew how to use, and he inwardly cursed himself for being so inept. So, he went with who he was instead of trying to be something different.

“You’re paler than I imagined.”

His words seemed to startle her somewhat. Her eyebrows knitted together as her gaze flickered between his and the window.

“You’re like snow. Soft and cold.” He stroked his fingers over the tops of her freezing hands. They felt like silk.

“I shall try to get more sun, my lord,” she muttered through still lips.

“Good luck,” he rasped. “Only seen the sun once since I set foot north of the Neck.”

“Perhaps you should have stayed South, then,” she almost snapped. His lips twitched. Perhaps he could annoy her enough that she’d stop shaking? He nearly kept on path, but reconsidered. Irritated women didn’t often let men touch them.

“Maybe I like the snow,” he murmured and pulled gently on her hands. She moved a step closer so that her legs bumped against his knees.

“You’ve come to the right place,” she said more softly than before. He continued to stroke his fingers over her hands, her wrists. Slowly, her body stopped shaking, but remained rigid. Best to ease her fears.

“I won’t bed you tonight,” he said bluntly, but kindly.

Finally, her eyes locked onto his and didn’t leave. She blinked rapidly and he could see her trying to dissect his words for hidden meanings. Silly Little Bird. When had he ever hidden anything from anyone, let alone her?

“Why not?” she asked, her words barely a whisper. He considered how to answer her. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to make her feel less than a woman, either.

“Never been with a woman I haven’t paid for,” he said honestly.

She looked confused and a little suspicious. “Why would that matter?”

He sat up straighter and let his fingers graze over the tops of her arms. Gooseflesh prickled under his touch, but she didn’t withdraw from him. He wrapped his hands around her forearms and carefully pulled her towards him. When she angled her hips to sit across his knees, he shook his head and pulled again. Her lower lip trembled slightly, but she raised her chin and stepped her feet apart, one either side of his knees.

He let his hands graze down the smooth flesh of her arms and encircled her delicate wrists. She continued to stare at him while he brought them back to his scarred mouth. He kissed one after the other and felt her pulse jump against his mouth before he placed her hands on his shoulders and reached for the fabric of her shift. Her hands snapped back and she gripped the cotton in her fists.

“No!” she said firmly. It was the loudest word she’d uttered since he’d entered the room, and the fear in it pierced right through him. He kept his eyes on hers and his fists in the flimsy fabric.

“I won’t remove it,” he promised. He could do what he’d planned with it still on. It would just make things a little more difficult. But what about this whole fucked up situation wasn’t?

She released a shaky breath and dropped her hands to her sides limply. She went back to looking out the window over his shoulder. He cursed in his head, but didn’t start over. They’d never get anywhere if he backed off every time she jumped. He lifted the hem to just above her knees and pulled it against the back of her legs tightly to move her closer to him. She stumbled a half-step forward before she finally understood what he wanted. Or perhaps she’d understood all along, but only just convinced herself to comply.

She wore no small clothes under the shift, so her cunt rested on the cloth of his breeches. The heat of her seemed to burn right down to his skin. He had to remind himself that he’d not get any relief tonight. It didn’t stop his cock from swelling painfully behind his laces. He drew his palms up the curves of her thighs and hips as they settled at her waist. She was thicker than when she was a child. Had a woman’s body that many would desire and any woman would envy. He wondered if she knew that.

“Always thought you were beautiful,” he said suddenly. The words just tumbled from his ruined face. He couldn’t stop them if he tried. “Even when you were young. Most beautiful bird I’d ever seen.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she gave no other response to his words. He noticed that her fingers clutched at the bare skin of his shoulders slightly.

“Nothing has changed that,” he tried to assure her. “Still beautiful. More so now.”

He couldn’t help but look directly at her teats. They were fuller than he’d remembered. The dusky pink of her peaks was easily seen through the nearly sheer shift. He tried not to shift beneath her.

When he glanced back up at her face, he saw that she’d caught him staring. She didn’t look upset, rather she looked intrigued and a little amused. He met her gaze easily. He wouldn’t apologize for looking at her. He’d do it as often as she’d allow. So, she’d better get used to it.

“I’m not good at this,” he told her, disliking the way it felt to admit that. His fingers toyed with the ends of her feathery hair.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and her shoulders settled a little more, though her breaths were still heavy. He pulled on her waist to bring her closer to him. When her eyes fluttered closed and her lips brushed over his he tried to remember to think. To move slowly. To be gentle and careful and soft. But then she’d sighed and lightly scratched her nails over the back of his neck and his mind left him briefly. His hand slid up her back and tangled into her hair at her neck. He didn’t know who deepened this kiss, but she tasted of lemons and Arbour Gold. He tried not to devour her the way he wanted. He needed to keep his body calm, but his heart already pounded and his cock ached so much he idly wondered if he’d do himself damage by not seeing to it soon.

He broke from the kiss first and tried not to pant like the dog he was. She breathed heavily, too and he decided to try his luck. She hadn’t struck him yet; hadn’t fled the room screaming. It was the best chance he’d get.

The hand at his waist moved slowly up her ribcage. When he’d reached her breast and slowly circled her peak with his thumb her breath rushed out of her body and her eyes widened slightly. He released her hair and traced his fingers lightly over her collarbone before he dropped his hand, mimicking the actions on her other teat. She drew her lip between her teeth and her breath hitched in a little gasp.

He focused on her reactions. The way she’d lean into his touch when he palmed her fully. The tremble in her body when he rolled her stiff peaks between his thumbs and fingers. The way she’d jolt when he flicked them lightly. Her eyes drifted shut a few times as she hummed softly in her pleasure. When he brought his mouth to her chest and kissed the heated flesh between her teats her whole body when rigid and her hands shoved against his shoulders hard. She didn’t have the strength to move him, but he backed off immediately. Her frightened blue eyes met his and she shook her head violently.

“Please,” she choked out.

“Easy, Little Bird.” His fingers stilled, but he kept his hands on her teats. She hadn’t removed them, after all.

“This dog doesn’t bite,” he tried to assure her, but when her eyes went unfocused, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. He reached up and cupped her cheek in his rough hand.

“Look at me,” he rasped. When she didn’t immediately comply, he stroked his thumb over her cheekbone.

“Little Bird.” He recalled what she’d said in the Godswood. She liked that name. He’d say it all damned day if she wanted.

It felt like an age had passed when she looked to him again and seemed to see him through whatever nightmare played in her head. He brushed a brief kiss to her lips which she returned immediately. Her eyes stayed with his when he caressed her face again.

“No one will ever hurt you again,” he vowed.

“Or you’ll kill them,” she said on a whispered sigh. It seemed he’d finally figured out what to say to bring her back. Some might find it disturbing that threats of violence calmed her so. Strange wife he had. Perfect for him, though.

When his thumb brusher her nipple she shuddered a little. He resumed his ministrations. It took less time than before to get her cheeks flushed and her breaths hard. He kept his eyes on her face as one hand slipped down and touched her knee. When she sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes shot open again, he kept his movements slow and still pulled at her peak with his other hand.

“Look at me, Little Bird,” he suggested as his fingers grazed the milky flesh of her thigh. She nodded shakily and the hand she’d tangled in his hair pulled almost painfully. Her blue eyes stayed locked on his.

When his fingertip brushed over her cunt, her fingernails dug into his shoulder and her body jerked back slightly. He moved his hand forward and gently stroked her again. She managed to stay still that time, though she bit her lip so hard he was afraid she’d make herself bleed. He reached up from her teat and freed her lip from her teeth with his thumb, rubbing the plump flesh before he reached down to roll her nipple again. When her eyes went out of focus that time, he knew it wasn’t from fear. It spurred him on.

One hand on her breast, the other reached forward and cupped her sex. She was warm and slick. A good sign. He’d done something right for a change. He pressed his thumb to the spot he’s watched whores flick with their fingers while they rode his cock. It was a little nub, easy to find in the velvety folds of her skin. Sansa squeaked and her whole body jumped as her eyes went impossibly wide. He smirked at her. He couldn’t help it, cocky bastard that he was. It wasn’t often – or ever – that he’d gotten such a reaction from a woman. Never from one he hadn’t paid, few as those had been.

He swept his thumb over that spot again and relished in the ways she seemed to lose her composure and control over her own body. She jolted with each pass and her breaths became soft little gasps as he legs shook and trembled on his. He continued to pull at her peaks, alternating between them since she wouldn’t let him use his mouth, but had to cease his plucking in order to wrap his arm around her waist when her body shied away from his touch. Couldn’t have her falling on her royal arse. Would definitely kill the mood he’d worked so hard to achieve.

Suddenly, she’d stopped moving away and seemed to be chasing his touch. Her hips rocked slightly against his hand and her grip on his shoulders tightened. Her head dropped forward so that their foreheads touched and a little whimper escaped her lips, his name nearly lost in the sweet sound. He bit back a groan, determined not to distract her. Determined not to flip her onto her back on the soft bed and bury himself in her wet cunt. He could be a better man for her. He would be. He had to be.

A soft, keening cry tumbled from her mouth as her hips jerked roughly against his hand over and over as her legs shook and her arms trembled before she froze in his arms, wetness all over his hand. When he tried to stoke over her again, she yelped and tried to slam her thighs shut over his hand, so he pulled it out from between her legs and wrapped it around her waist with the other one. When her body continued to shake in his arms, he pulled her tighter against his frame. Her arms wound around his neck and tucked her face into the hollow she’d created there.

Instinct took over and his hands seemed to act on their own accord. Fingers stroked over her spine gently as he tried to soothe her. He murmured quiet words in her ear. Nonsense, mostly. The name she seemed to adore. He couldn’t understand how it helped her, but it did. The trembling stopped after a time and her breaths evened out. He didn’t even bother to speak before he reached under her rump and stood, lifting her up with ease. She startled a little, but he shushed her and her fingers twisted softly into his hair. When his cocked twitched in response, he prayed to whatever god would listen that he held her away enough that she wouldn’t notice.

He set her down in the bed and watched with no little amount of satisfaction as she snuggled contentedly into the furs. Her eyes fluttered sleepily and she reached for him. He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers before he lay it back down over her chest.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Sleep, Little Bird.”

Before she could ask where he was off to at that late hour, he grabbed his shirt from the floor and tugged it on over his head as he all but fled from the room. He needed a few minutes. Wouldn’t take long, not with the scent of her cunt still on his hand. So, like a green boy who needed to sneak off for a wank, he slunk away, balls aching for release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite a full lemon, but still good. Right?


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments :-) If you enjoyed the last chapter, you'll probably like this one, too.

Chapter 14

SANSA

She’d dreamed of him again. It was the same as it had always been. They were in her room. It was night. The only light came from flickering candles and the fire in the hearth. The soft yellow glow reflected off the blue of his eyes and the curls in his hair. He’d just bathed. She was so close she could smell the soap on his skin. Her hand reached up and trembled slightly as she stroked the stubble on his unshaven cheek, no longer the boy she’d known nearly her entire life.

The dream was her memory of the last night she’d been with him. If she closed her eyes, she could replay it in her mind even when she was awake. As she sat in the bath, steaming water scented with lavender soaked down to her bones and the memories washed over her.

_“I shouldn’t be here,” he said nervously. “Jon wouldn’t like it.”_

_Sansa rolled her eyes. “Considering the company he keeps lately, Jon won’t have anything he **can** say about it.”_

_“I don’t belong here,” he argued from a different perspective. She had to grab his face in both hands to get him to stop shaking his head._

_"This is your home, too,” she insisted firmly. “Just as much as it is mine.”_

_“It’s not,” he mumbled. “I’m not a Stark. I’ve never been a Stark.”_

_Her heart ached for him. The only man who’d ever made good on his promises to help her; to keep her safe. He’d risked his life for her. He’d saved her. Perhaps she could save him as well. The idea had been kicking around in her mind since he’d arrived and pledged himself to House Stark once more. To her._

_“You could be,” said hesitantly, not sure how to proceed. It wasn’t how these things were done. But how had tradition ever served either of them well?_

_He eyed her with fear and open suspicion. She understood why. Of course, she did. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs ever so gently as she spoke softly so as not to frighten him._

_“Do you,” she paused, still afraid. Once said, the words could not be unspoken. And yet, she found the courage to try again. “Do you love me, Theon?”_

_He swallowed and his breath came out fast. His body shivered beneath her hands, much as her own did despite the warmth of the room. But he managed to nod once._

_“Since we were children,” he admitted with a firm nod. He sounded ashamed, but his words made her smile._

_“Then stay with me,” she implored him. “Marry me. I don’t want to be auctioned off again or traded like some great Northern prize.”_

_“Jon wouldn’t –“ he started to correct her, but she talked over him, not caring how rude it was._

_“He would,” she insisted. “He would try to make it a good match with an honourable man, but at the end of the day it wouldn’t be my choice.”_

_He tried another angle. “I’m not good enough for you.”_

_“I say you are,” she volleyed back, undeterred._

_“I watched him hurt you,” he said as his eyes clouded with tears. “I betrayed Robb to his death. I betrayed you!”_

_“You saved me!”_

_“No!” Tears filled his eyes and strangled his voice._

_“ **YES**! Theon, you save me. You saved us both. She would have killed me, **HE** would have killed me, and you know it. You tried to lead me to safety. You were willing to sacrifice yourself to keep me away from him. To keep me alive.” Her voice caught on the last word and she willed herself to stay strong. Not to cry. _

_At the threat of her tears, Theon’s hands came up and gently rested on her upper arms, while he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. They stayed in that embrace for a time before he spoke again. Calmer than before._

_“I can’t give you children,” he said miserably. “A great lady like you needs heirs for the Stark line, even if not in name.”_

_Sansa huffed a small laugh and pulled back to look at him openly. His hands fell to her waist and stayed lightly there, not pulling her closer, but not pushing her away either._

_“We can have as many as you want,” she told him honestly. When he tried to shake his head again, she raked the fingers of one hand through his curls while the other stayed at his jaw._

_“How many orphans does a war create? Hundreds? Thousands? We can’t take them all, but we can take in as many as we like. We can give them a home. Give them safety. Love.”_

_“Ask your brother what it was like growing up in a castle as a bastard. I won’t do that to anyone else,” he proclaimed bitterly. She knew in part it was due to his own treatment of Jon. They all their childhood regrets, did they not?_

_“Do you really think Jon, our King, wouldn’t legitimize any babe we brought to him? Do you think Northern lords would care, so long as they were Northern children and raised by Northerners?”_

_“Not a Northerner,” he said stubbornly._

_“Not by birth,” she allowed, “but your heart lives here. It’s why you returned. It’s why you came back to . . . Winterfell.”_

_“I came back for you,” he murmured, his eyes impossibly blue and clear. Like the stories of seas in the Summer Isles._

_She smiled at him and stroked his face some more as a hollow sort of fear and desperation tried to take hold. “Then stay with me. You do not have to give me an answer just yet. But stay here with me now. Just until the battle. Lay with me here until you have to go?”_

_He’d never hurt her. He wasn’t capable of it. And she trusted him more than just about anyone else. He’d proven his loyalty, even if it had come at a terrible cost. She’d understood, after a while, why it had taken him so long to break free of Ramsay’s hold. She’d understood and she’d forgiven him._

_He nodded at her slowly, so she’d pulled him back towards her bed. She just wanted to feel safe and loved. Just one night in her life. And there was no promise that tomorrow would even come . . ._

A knock at the door startled Sansa from her recollections. She brushed at her cheeks, relieved that she hadn’t been crying – those memories frequently led to tears – and cleared the grief from her throat.

“Come in, Beccah,” she called. The maid bustled in with a clean robe and new hairbrush. With hair as long as hers, she needed to replace them more frequently than most. Beccah stopped at the foot of the tub and cocked her head to the side, inspecting Sansa’s face far more closely than she preferred at that given moment.

“Are you well, my Queen?” she inquired gently. Sansa gave her a sad smile and nodded.

“Just remembering someone I lost,” she answered truthfully. She was thankful for Beccah and her discretion. It meant that she had someone to talk to as a woman from time to time.

The other woman tutted quietly and held the robe out for her. Sansa stood and wrapped it around her body, careful not to slip when she stepped from the tub.

She sat on a stood by the fire while her maid brushed her hair dry. In truth, it was her favourite part of her day. Well, it used to be. A flush crept up her neck and went up to the crown of her head. When Beccah noticed, she walked over to the window and threw it open to allow the chilly outside air to bring down the temperature in the bedchamber.

“Still thinking about the man you lost?” she asked politely. Too politely. Beccah wasn’t known for her manners. Sansa sighed deeply and fiddled with the tie of her robe.

“Or perhaps another man takes up space in your mind now, too?”

“Beccah,” she groaned around a little laugh. Her maid chuckled freely and stroked the brush the length of her hair.

“Just looking out for your wellbeing, your Grace,” she said in a light voice.

“I’ll bet you are,” Sansa grumbled good naturedly.

“It’s been nearly a week since you wed,” she went on airily. “I had anticipated some troubles, if I were to tell it true. But it seems you are very calm in the mornings. Relaxed, even.”

The flush deepened. She wasn’t surprised that she appeared relaxed. Sandor had been very . . . generous since their union, if not completely single minded. He touched her every night. Sometimes while she sat astride him, as their first night, and sometimes in their bed. But he never tried to bed her. And he never asked her to touch him or please him in any way. She’d gotten more used to his touch and no longer took a while to enjoy it. Not only that, but she’d even allowed – and enjoyed – when he kissed her throat or her ear. She still couldn’t allow his mouth on her breasts. She still kept her shift on. The scars were too many. Too hideous. He’d called her beautiful. Many times. She’d been just as surprised by his sweet words as she had been with his particular interest in her pleasure. But would he still say that if he saw her skin?

But would that really matter to a man such as him? A little voice whispered in her mind that someone who’d been so mistreated because of his scars surely wouldn’t hold hers against her. Wouldn’t think her less beautiful because of them. She wasn’t sure she was ready to find out.

Her train of thought must have showed on her face, because Beccah sighed and moved to the other side of her head.

“You know, your Grace,” she said carefully. “My sister is a woman wed, and still comes to me with questions. Or ever just when she wants to brag, mean girl.”

Sansa snorted an indelicate laugh. She sounded like Arya. Deep down Sansa knew she could ask her sister questions. She knew they weren’t close as children, but that had changed since she’d returned home. They spent more time together since Littlefinger’s demise, and even more so since she’d entered Sansa’s service.

Beccah could be trusted, too, to give good advice. Sansa couldn’t deny that the other woman cared for her. In some ways she reminded her of Margaery, but much more honest. While the other lady had tried to take Sansa under her wing and show her the ways of love, she had all but abandoned her once her betrothal to her brother had been stopped in its tracks.

She looked at the woman who had seen her at her most vulnerable and considered her for a moment. It was strange that someone so skilled was still unmarried, but she’d never wanted to pry when the subject came up and Beccah always shut it down. She didn’t want a husband, she always insisted, but never seemed to bothered by it.

“Have you ever been with a man, Beccah?” No sooner had the words tumbled from her lips did she want to snatch them back up. Queen or no, that was not a question to ever ask a woman. She turned, an apology already on her lips, when she saw the wistful smile on her maid’s face.

“No, your Grace,” she admitted. “But I have had a lover.”

Sansa blinked. “A woman?”

“Do you know of a third option?” she asked saucily. Sansa spluttered a laugh and shook her head.

“Who was she?” Sansa found herself incredibly curious.

“Her name was Lilah, and she was the love of my life,” she said with a dreamy smile.

“Where is she now?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“She was married off to some knight from the Vale. A good catch for a miller’s daughter.” She didn’t sound sad or bitter.

“You don’t . . . miss her?”

“Course I do. But we’re women. What were our choices, really? We couldn’t live together, not without being run off from any town we tried to stay in. And she was happy with the man in the end.”

Sansa could tell her confusion was plain on her face. Beccah smiled again and went back to brushing.

“Some men love only women, while others love only men,” she explained with an airy shrug. “Some men love both. Women are no different. Lilah loved both. But, I don’t. So, that’s why I don’t marry.”

“I see,” Sansa murmured, and she truly thought she did. It was like Margaery told her all those years ago. Women get so little time to figure out what they want before the decision is often made for them. Beccah knew what she wanted, but couldn’t have it. Not with Lilah, anyway.

“Will you take another lover?”

“Am I permitted to do so, your Grace?” There was no trace of humour in the maids’ eyes.

“Of course!” she exclaimed, and turned to the other woman to take her hand in hers. “You are free to love whomever you want. And free to live with her anywhere in the North.”

“That’s not the way the world works, my Queen,” the woman said kindly.

“I’m the Queen. It’s my world to shape. And I say it can work that way. If anyone gives you any trouble, they’ll have me to answer to.” And she meant it. Some of the laws of men were stupid and had no place in the modern world anymore. She would discuss it with the Maester and her Hand – husband – later. Speaking of . . .

“My husband will not bed me,” she blurted out.

Beccah didn’t look nearly surprised enough.

“Is that so?” she said far too casually. Sansa narrowed her eyes.

“You know something.” It was not a question. Beccah was an awful liar. Worse than she had been as a child.

“Tell me something, your Grace,” she asked instead. “Is what he does enjoyable?”

Sansa bit her lip as another blush crept across her skin. Beccah cackled out a loud laugh and clapped her hands together.

“Are you about finished?” Sansa grumbled with fake irritation.

Once she’d settled down again, she looked Sansa right in the eye, still holding her hand.

“Do you want him to bed you? Do you desire him?”

Sansa hesitated. “I – I don’t know. I don’t not want it.”

“That’s a big improvement, is it not?” Beccah asked kindly as she went about braiding Sansa’s smooth, dry locks.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she murmured as she thought on the question more.

Did she want to? Was she ready for that? She had no doubt he would be careful with her. He hadn’t mishandled her yet and they’d been intimate – in some form – every night since they’d wed. She knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t fair to him to leave him so unsatisfied. It made her feel a little defective as a wife not to take care of his needs.

A flash of determination shot through her and she looked at her friend and maid. Before she could even open her mouth to put voice to her thoughts, Beccah grinned devilishly and set down the brush.

“I’ll have this tub cleared away, your Grace. Won’t take but a moment,” she said in a rush as she headed towards the door.

“But –“ she spluttered. She wasn’t even dressed in a shift! People couldn’t come in and see her that way!

Beccah stopped and dug into Sansa’s wardrobe before she produced a thick cloak. She tossed it over her shoulders and ushered her into the private solar connected to her bedchamber. Sansa perched on the edge of the cushioned chair as she tugged the cloak tightly around her body.

Beccah was gone only moments before several servants entered the room hot on her heels. She barked orders at them to have the tub cleared away immediately.

“But don’t slosh water all over the floor!” she barked. “It won’t do for our Queen to slip on the mess and break something. Don’t think her lord husband would like that very much, do you?”

No one looked at her as they rushed the tub, water and all, from her chambers and closed the door behind them. Beccah turned back to her and winked.

“Wait here, your Grace,” she chirped happily, and then she was gone like a puff of smoke.

A shaky breath left Sansa’s parted lips and she tried not to shiver. The fire next to her was warm, but her mind’s direction made her shake with nervousness. But not fear, she noticed. She wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of what he might do. He could have done anything he wanted in the past week and he hadn’t. In fact, he had gone out of his way to make it all about her. She felt the skin on her chest flush deeply when she thought about how generous he’d been. How good it had all felt. She no longer flinched when he reached for her, no matter her state of undress or how unexpected it was.

The door was suddenly flung open and it banged loudly off the wall. Sandor stomped in, eyes flashing dangerously. Sansa practically leapt to her feet and spun around in a circle to look for whatever threat he seemed to think was in the room with them. When her gaze landed on his again, he looked a little puzzled.

“Your maid said you needed me.”

The flush from her chest extended up to the crown of her head. Her mouth dry and hands shaking, she nodded a little and tried to keep her voice steady.

“Lock the door.” She was impressed with the evenness of her tone as she walked back into their bedchamber, chin up.

He looked confused, but he did as she bade and then followed her. She walked over to shutter the window Beccah had opened. It made the room darker, but it also kept the warmth in. The fire had started to dim somewhat. Ideas flew through her mind. Clever things to say. None of them were right. He didn’t like games. He liked blunt and direct. She dropped her cloak and turned to him clad only in her thin silk robe.

“Can you build up the fire please? I don’t want to catch a chill.”

His eyes raked over her body in such a way that she already felt bare. Could she do it? Go through with the ideas that only moments ago had made her feel so brave? She swallowed as he nodded and walked to the hearth. More logs sent sparks up the chimney as they cracked and crackled. When he turned back to her, she could have been forgiven for thinking him calm. But the light that flashed in his eyes as he hungrily took her in told her all she needed to know. He wanted her. She knew that, of course, but it was nice to have it consistently reinforced by the heat of his gaze. The touch of his hands.

Still, her hands shook fiercely as she pulled on the ties of her robe. She had to force herself to stare at him as she allowed it to slip from her shoulder and join the cloak pooled on the floor. She was happy that she’d just bathed. She could do nothing about the way her skin was mottled with scars and marks; at least she knew she smelled like a lady should.

“I have need of you,” she said in a low whisper. She was so nervous that when he stepped towards her, she felt a shiver wrack her entire body. But she held his eyes. Still, he paused.

“You’re certain?” he rasped.

The bulge in his breeches told her his blood was up – because of her. But the caution in his voice told her that if she changed her mind, he wouldn’t make her. He’d stop if she asked. She felt her shoulders settle a little and the knots in her stomach loosen. She nodded and stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed.

He needed no further encouragement. He yanked his tunic off over his head and toed his boots off. Before she could blink, he stood in only his small clothes. It was the fastest she’d ever seen someone disrobe before. If she thought it wouldn’t offend him – men could be a sensitive lot – she would have laughed.

He strode over and kissed her deeply without delay and her naked skin tingled everywhere it touched his body. His fingers lightly skimmed over her spine; it made her tremble, but in the best way. When one hand closed over her breast and tugged at her peak, she mewled into his mouth. It was highly embarrassing, the noises she made in her pleasure. But he seemed to enjoy them, so she did her best not to stifle them too much. Still, she kept them as quiet as she could. She’d be humiliated if others had heard her.

She laid her hands lightly on his chest before she dropped them down and traced the lines of his muscled stomach. He breathed heavily when she did that and it always made her feel good to do something he obviously liked. When her fingers grazed over his hips he grunted and thrust his manhood against the soft flesh of her belly. The movement seemed to be involuntary though because he broke their kiss and pulled back a little. His breaths came short and fast as he kissed along her neck and over the top of her shoulder. It was new territory for her; to allow him to use him mouth anywhere. She tried to keep her mind focused on the present as he pushed her gently to lay back in the furs. He crawled over her, but kept his body aloft while he looked down at her.

It took all of her discipline to keep her hands at her sides and not cover her bareness from his view. Instead, she watched his expression closely as his eyes roved over her chest and down lower for any signs of disgust or revulsion. Her scars were hideous and plentiful. She didn’t know what he’d think of them. But as he set his hand between her breasts and slowly stroked it down her body, all she saw in his face was pure desire. His skin was rough and calloused and it felt good against the smoothness of hers. When his fingertips brushed over the thatch of hair above her womanhood, her muscles trembled and jumped beneath them.

“Beautiful Little Bird,” he murmured as his mouth descended on shoulder again. “So soft.”

She bit her lip through a smile. He’d gotten better at sweet words. She’d really come to enjoy hearing them. She lifted her hands and reached around his hulking frame to lightly stroke them up his back. He rumbled a soft groan against her neck. His mouth trailed hot kisses down over her shoulder and continued on their path. Unlike before, he didn’t stop and continued towards her breast. Her body tensed up as he pressed a kiss to the top of her chest, but before she could push him away, he dipped his head down and captured her nipple between his lips and suckled slightly.

Sansa gasped harshly as a bolt of pure pleasure shot straight to her core. “Oh!”

He kept his mouth there, flicking at her peak with his tongue in a such a way that her back arched and her eyes rolled back in her head. Little moans fell from her parted lips when the hand between her legs stroked her in a rhythm that matched what he did with his mouth at her breast. For a man who’d claimed not to be very good at pleasuring a woman, he certainly appeared to be a fast learner. She expected to find her pleasure quickly, and was sorely disappointed when he removed his hand from between her thighs and kissed his way to her other breast. She may have even whimpered a little.

Her hands tightened their grip on his back and she was mindful not to scratch him or dig her nails into his skin. He was so careful with her; it was the least she could do to return the favour. When his lips moved down her body and along her stomach, she pulled her arms free and rested them on his shoulders. Her eyes had started to drift closed when he suddenly dropped his face down and pressed a kiss to her womanhood.

“What are you –“ she started to object until her words were lost in a loud cry as his tongue swept over the sensitive flesh there.

She didn’t know how her hands became buried in his hair, nor if she was the one responsible for spreading her legs wider. She did know that her thighs shook like she’d been riding for hours and that her entire body felt hot and too sensitive while at the same time like it couldn’t get enough of the wicked things he did with his mouth. Her jaw had dropped open and sharp little cries poured out of her, louder than she’d ever allowed before, but she somehow couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to stop any of it. Her back arched deeply and her hand fisted in his hair as the other grasped desperately at the furs beneath her and before she could catch her breath the waves of pleasure knocked it from her lungs over and over again until she fell limp beneath him.

She barely registered the kisses he pressed to the tender flesh of her inner thighs, nor the way he rumbled a laugh against her chest when she let her hand slip from her hair to grasp around the back of his neck. When he kissed her shoulder again, she could smell the scent of her on his face. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was strange. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.

A hand stroked down her leg and fingers gripped the back of her knee as he pulled it up to bend at an angle. Sansa forced her unfocused eyes open and saw the shimmering grey of his barely a breath away from hers. Her hand rested on his check as another toyed with the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Breathe,” he said softly, and before she could ask him why, she felt his cock press into her.

Her body immediately tensed up and she sucked in a sharp breath at the intrusion, but it didn’t hurt like she’d been used to. He paused stroked his thumb over her knee a few times, fingers dancing along her thigh. When she’d finally caught her breath and got her mind to stay calm, she nodded a little. He pressed into her more. He seemed to move inside of her with more ease than she’d anticipated, and while she felt stretched, it wasn’t really painful. He continued to press inside of her, very slowly and carefully, until his hips met hers. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly as he rested his forehead against hers while he panted out heavy breaths.

His frame shook hard as he moved slowly and evenly; small strokes that barely moved them. With the absence of pain, Sansa found that it didn’t frighten her at all. In fact, she felt a little emboldened by the obvious pleasure he got from such little movements in her body. She bit her lip and experimentally shifted her hips up to meet his as he pushed back into her. The deep groan that vibrated through him empowered her to move a little more, and she found she enjoyed the sensation of him being deep inside her body more than she’d ever thought she could.

She turned her head slightly and kissed along his cheek before she nipped ever so gently at the shell of his ear. He grunted and his hips jerked into hers with more force than before. Immediately, he stilled and pulled back to look at her face with a look of caution clear on his features. She smiled a little and pulled her other leg free to bend her knee. It allowed him to slip a little deeper inside her. She felt a small thrill at the way his eyes rolled back. She tugged at his shoulder to let him know to move again.

It was all the encouragement he’d needed, apparently. His thrusts weren’t rough or fast; he didn’t pound into her or abuse her body. After a few moments she felt something deep inside of her tingle and tighten. Little shocks of pleasure that radiated from her centre and made her breaths come faster. Her thighs tightened against his hips. And when his manhood brushed just right inside of her, a little cry of pleasure was all it took to set his off.

Jaw clenched, his hips jerked a few times against hers as one hand fisted in the furs and the other gripped the frame of the bed so tightly, she heard the wood groan in protest. He grunted a little and panted loud and fast against her shoulder as his body stilled above hers. She knew that meant he was finished and stroked her hands over his shoulders and down his back. He hummed slightly and pressed a light kiss to her skin before he rolled off to the side, pulling her along with him. He tucked her into his embrace and pulled furs over their bodies. She heard his heart as it thumped loudly in his chest and pressed into his body.

“I hurt you?” he rumbled quietly. A hand absently stroked along her lower back. She thought he may have favoured that part of her body the way he always seemed to be touching her there.

“Not at all,” she murmured truthfully. She looked up at him and smiled, uncertain. “Will it always be like that?”

He snorted a laugh and tickled his fingers along her waist and hip. She twitched a little, but didn’t pull away. It felt too good.

“I’ll do my best,” he answered back.

She grinned like a fool and burrowed further into his embrace. If he kept doing his best for her, she’d have to do the same for him. Something told her they weren’t going to get much else done in the coming weeks. That was just fine with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I wouldn't get much done with him around either ;-)   
> Leave me some love xx


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